


The Falcon Has Flown

by 1949



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 49,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4283127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1949/pseuds/1949
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Arryn is fostered at Dragonstone, and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon Arryn

 

* * *

**JON ARRYN**

* * *

  _In which Justin Massey’s wagging tongue changes everything_

 

“One more petitioner,” Vardis Egan said quietly. “Shall I admit him?

 

Jon Arryn suppressed a sigh. If he allowed himself to sigh every time he wanted to, he would long have been a broken man. Weight seemed to press down on his shoulders even as the blades of the Iron Throne pressed against his back and arms. The weight of a kingdom, the weight of being Hand for an absentee king, the weight of all the deadly secrets he had recently uncovered.

 

Robert had no legitimate children. The Lannister marriage that Jon had arranged for his onetime ward—had the warding really ever ended?—seemed to mock him every time he passed by the three children. Gold of hair, green of eye. Not black of hair, blue of eye.

 

He would have to tell Robert soon. He had the bastards Gendry and Barra, he had the book with the crucial passages. There would be no containing Robert’s fury when he heard the truth, but Jon wanted to take no chances of word reaching Cersei. Blood would almost certainly be spilt, and far better that it be Lannister blood than Robert’s. Of either of his sons.

 

On the morrow, the younger Robert would be on a ship bound for Dragonstone. Lord Stannis said that one of his trusted men, somebody whom the Master of Ships used for some of the more unsavory business that Jon assiduously avoided knowing the truth about, would be ready with a small but fast merchant ship to collect the boy. Maester Coleman had been told to prepare the boy’s things by the next week; the baggage would indeed go the next week, but it would follow Robert, not accompany him. By evening the boy would be with Stannis, and Lysa would be on her way back to the Eyrie. And once he was sure that they were safe, Jon would tell the King everything.

 

Jon would do right by all his sons, Robert and Ned and his own Robert. It would be good for the boy to be away from his mother, and in a place where he could be properly taught to be a man. Stannis would not be able to spend much time with the boy, but Maester Cressen would be a far better teacher than Pycelle or Coleman. As for training with arms, one simply did not walk down a corridor in Dragonstone without running into a scarred man of some sort. Perhaps in time a betrothal could even be arranged with Stannis’ daughter Shireen. If she was like her father, Robert would have a strong hand to help guide him, while Shireen would have a far better home in the Eyrie than what Stannis called “that pile of rocks.” Then when Robert and Jon and Stannis were all gone, hopefully many years hence, the rightful ruler of Westeros would have the support of the Vale. The support and hopefully the love of his young boy, the last of House Arryn. A love that he had never been able to give to Lysa.

 

Could Dragonstone make Sweetrobin a strong, wise man? All those wasted years for his son…if only he could have spent more time with the boy, Jon thought briefly. But it was too late to dwell on regrets. He had placed the kingdom above the boy, and failed both. Yet there was still time to set things straight.

 

The hardest part would be to tell his wife. It would have been safer to tell her after the fact; Lysa would be furious, he knew, and might have to be separated from the boy by force, which could alert the Lannisters. Lysa and he had never loved each other, but Jon genuinely wanted to do right by her. So he would have to tell her. They would lunch together that day, and then break their fasts in the morning together as well. Better to tell her in the morrow. It would be one fewer night of pain for everybody.

 

“My lord?” Vardis’ stolid voice was laced with a tinge of concern for his liege. “Should I admit him?”

 

Jon roused himself from his thoughts. “Who is it?”

 

“Ser Justin Massey. He has Lord Stannis’ confidence, or at least that’s what he says.”

 

“If he’s one of Stannis’ men, it shouldn’t take long. Send him in.”

 

By the time Justin Massey was done talking, Jon Arryn found himself wondering how Stannis could possibly stand having this man serve him. Justin was a member of the ancient but poor House Massey, and as a younger son he would inherit close to nothing. But the lord of an estate bordering Stonedance had recently died without children, and Justin wanted that land. The law was clear enough; the lord had cousins, and it should go to them. However, Justin waxed eloquent, and it was an hour before the audience was over. Jon Arryn had to call the squire Hugh over halfway through and instructed him to tell Lysa that he would miss lunch.

 

* * *

 

The tears fell the next morning. Lysa had turned pale when he told her that her Sweetrobin would be taken away soon, then burst into tears, then began trying to alternately cajole and threaten him. He felt like a monster when a sleepy Robert was brought in to say farewell, and Lysa had to be physically pulled away from her son. Jon Arryn wondered for a second how he would have reacted if forced to surrender Ned and Robert, sixteen years earlier, before banishing the treacherous thoughts. This action, no matter how much it hurt, would be for the best for everybody.

 

A carriage was waiting in a courtyard. Jon would sometimes take Robert for a ride around King’s Landing; that day, he would be unable to do so, so Ser Vardis Egan would take his place. In an alley that was hopefully discreet enough, they would transfer to another carriage that this Ser Davos would have waiting.

 

“My place is with you,” Ser Vardis had protested, when Jon informed him of his new duties that morning. He, Lord Baelish, and Maester Coleman were the only ones of Jon’s men who knew something of the Queen’s Matter.

 

But Lysa trusted Ser Vardis, so she would know that Robert had somebody to protect him. He owed her at least that much. Also, it would allow Robert to have at least one familiar face with him. “I have enough men to protect me from the Lannisters,” Jon told the knight. Besides, Lord Baelish had promised that the City Guard would be on his side. At least some of the Kingsguard, as well. He could count on Ser Barristan, Ser Arys, and Ser Mandon, and hopefully the rest—besides the Kingslayer, of course—would stand behind their king.

 

“Protect my son,” he told Ser Vardis at the end. “When you arrive safely in Dragonstone, send a raven. Say that the falcon has landed.”

 

The boy was a far more difficult farewell. He was sullen, and Jon feared that he might break into one of his shaking fits before reaching the shelter of Dragonstone. In the end, Jon simply patted him on the head. The boy would accept no gentle words, and did not so much as look at his father as he got into the carriage.

 

Jon Arryn felt tired, so very tired, as he watched the carriage disappear and took a last look at Lysa sobbing in the window. I could not do right by my wife, the Hand thought, but at least I have done right by my sons. And his heart felt a little lighter as he turned back towards the Red Keep.

 

* * *

 

Inspired partly by [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCg3YKazVG8) from The Eagle Has Landed.

So the point of divergence is that Jon Arryn is poisoned two meals later, too late to prevent Sweetrobin from being sent away to foster on Dragonstone. While the timeline of Jon Arryn’s last days isn’t clear from canon, I think that things would have moved very quickly to try to prevent the Lannisters from acting first, so I don’t think it’s implausible.


	2. Rolland Storm

 

 

* * *

**Rolland Storm**

* * *

_In which the courses of ships and swords are changed, and a storm rises_

The _Lady Bright_ arrived at Dragonstone on the black of morning.

“My favorite time of day,” Ser Davos said. “Time for all but lawbreakers and Ser Davos to be asleep, but I repeat myself,” Rolland snickered back. “Then you include yourself in our company.”

But truth be told, the Onion Knight looked ready to collapse onto his bed. He had been watching the little lordling, and Rolland did not envy him the duty one bit. The boy had been sullen and clutching a cloth doll when Davos collected him and Ser Vardis, but now that seemed a blessing. A few hours out of King’s Landing a shaking fit had come over the lad, accompanied by wails for his mother. “Let him be,” Ser Vardis had warned them at the entrance to the boy’s cabin. “It will pass,” he continued with a bleary face that said otherwise.

Davos had ventured in nevertheless, and emerged a couple hours later with a slightly bemused look. The boy had beat on him with his puny fists till he tired, Davos reported, and it had taken all his tact to calm him somewhat. The three knights had sat down with the captain to a welcome repast of bread, cheese, and Dornish olives when the wailing began afresh. Ser Davos returned to the cabin, and did not emerge till the lookout glimpsed the welcome shape of the dark towers of Dragonstone. At least Robert had remained in his cabin, Rolland thought, shuddering to think what the sight of the lapping water might have done to the boy.

And Rolland had felt helpless throughout the whole ordeal. His mission was to guard the boy, but could he guard Robert from himself? Of the three knights on the ship, he had to be the least suited for the task. Davos had seven sons, he knew, and even stolid Ser Vardis would occasionally speak a few soft words about his son back at the Eyrie. They worshipped all of the Seven, and the Father would surely guide them. But it was the Warrior alone that Ser Rolland worshipped, ever since that day as a lad of twelve when bandits had attacked a lonely sept where he had been praying. He had driven them off with the closest thing at hand, which happened to be the wooden statue of the Warrior. Rolland proposed that he worship the Warrior alone in recompense for the damage done to his image, and the grateful septon agreed that was a very sensible idea.

Lord Bryen Caron had brought him to Nightsong afterwards and acknowledged him—how could he do otherwise, when all the smallfolk around were singing of his exploit?—but that had never been truly home for Rolland, and he soon left to find his own way on the battlefield. The Warrior had indeed guided him safely through a dozen battles, with not a scratch besides the pockmarks that already covered his face. Chivalry, courage, steadfastness, such things did the Warrior bestow on a knight. But could he bestow strength on such a boy like Robert?

“Best you get some sleep,” he told Ser Davos as the older man rubbed his shortened hand across his eyes.

“Lord Stannis bade me see the boy safe all the way to Dragonstone, and I mean to see it done,” Davos replied. “Even if the good castellan would rather not have my company.”

Ser Axell’s distaste for the former smuggler was well known, and most of the knights knew to not to show favor to Davos, even good men like Ser Richard and Ser Justin. Rolland briefly wondered if the fair-haired knight had been recalled to the island. Everybody and everything else had been, it seemed.

Dragonstone had been a hive of activity for the past month. Ships returned from patrol and did not leave again; refits took place, and yet the ships remained in dock when every last barnacle had been scraped away. It was clear that the entire fleet would be sailing soon, but where? An excess of supplies had not been built up, as Ser Davos sagely pointed out, so it would be no surprise attack on a querulous Free City or a smuggler stronghold in the Stepstones. Perhaps it would be to surprise the Sistermen in their treachery, but the full strength of the royal navy would hardly be needed to cow Lord Borrell.

But Lord Stannis kept his secrets; Rolland wondered if even Davos knew what was truly happening. He did not press the matter. There were far more important concerns in the present.

The whole ship was coming alive now. The Braavosi captain emerged from his cabin, silks trailing behind, and watched as the first mate guided the ship to a vacant berth. “Here you are, my friends,” he said amiably.

“I hope you forgive my boy,” Davos told Luco Prestayn. “I fear he kept you up as well.”

The captain jiggled a leather purse. “Money sets all things right. Your little lord is forgiven.” He winked at Davos. “Perhaps when we return from Braavos, I shall dock here and we shall finish that meal that was so unpleasantly interrupted.” He turned away to supervise the reefing of the foresail. Davos had chosen wisely, Rolland thought; the _Lady Bright_ would sail for Tyrosh and Braavos again before returning to Westeros; by then, whatever required Robert Arryn to be smuggled away from King’s Landing would have passed.

“Pleasant for a Braavosi,” Davos confided as the ship docked. “I almost got beheaded by a First Sword of Braavos once. I tried to explain the difference between pirates and smugglers, and he wasn’t overly impressed by the distinction. I sometimes wonder what happened to him.”

The shore was waking as they rowed ashore at dawn, the sound of shouting and hammering filling the air. “Make them stop,” Robert wailed, clutching a doll. He might as well have ordered a dragon to come out of the Dragonmont. “Who is that scarred man? He’s uglier than you. Make him go away. Mother would never let him near me.”

It was Ser Richard Horpe waiting at the dock, looking about as comfortable as Stannis in a brothel. Like for Rolland, the battlefield was Richard’s home, not a nursery. “Welcome, Lord Robert," the knight with pocks and scars on his face said. "The hospitality of Dragonstone is yours. Ser Axell would like to see you at once in the Stone Drum. The Ladies Selyse and Shireen are also waiting.” He nodded to Ser Vardis and Rolland, before turning on his heel and leading them back towards the castle.

“Ser Richard,” Davos said in a low voice, hurrying up beside Horpe, “Perhaps it would be better if the little princess was not there. The boy…”

“You heard what he said about us,” Rolland interjected. Richard would be far more willing to listen to a bastard than Ser Davos. “For the sake of the Lady Shireen…”

“Ser Axell’s orders,” Richard muttered, looking displeased. But he did not turn.

Ser Axell was pacing back and forth in the lord’s solar, with Selyse and Shireen seated and Aurane Waters lounging against a wall. Richard made the introductions.

Shireen stood and timidly touched Robert on the arm. “Would you like to see the castle? Mother says we’ll be playmates. Or perhaps we could read together. I hear you like tales of the Winged Falcon and the Kings of the Mountain and Vale. Or I could tell you about the dragons that lived here.”

The boy looked up sullenly from the ground which he had been intently studying. “What are those scars? It’s ugly. You’re ugly. Mother would never let something as ugly as you near me. She’d make you fly. You’d fly. Where is mother? I want my mother.” He began to shake and stamp his feet.

There was silence for a moment from the others in the room. Shireen, to her eternal credit, stood still and did not say a word. Selyse reached out to clutch the girl, a vein throbbed in Ser Axell’s neck. Ser Vardis shifted his feet and looked like he wanted to jump out the window, Ser Richard stared into space, and Aurane watched it all in vague amusement. Rolland did not look back at Ser Davos, but he knew what his friend’s reaction would be. “Warrior have mercy if Stannis had been here,” Rolland thought briefly. But the Warrior helped guide one’s sword, not keep it firmly sheathed.

The tension hung heavy in the room, and the silence weightier than any words. “Take Lord Robert to his new rooms, Davos,” Ser Axell said at last, his face quite red. Ser Davos bowed, took the boy gently by the shoulders, and guided him away. Selyse, with a glare back at Robert, was leading Shireen out the other door. The girl looked regretful to leave. “Wait, Ser Vardis.”

The Vale knight paused, his cream blue cloak floating behind him as a gust of wind passed through the open windows. Ser Richard went over, closed it, and latched it shut. “I meant your master to send a raven to Lord Arryn,” he said. “He instructed me to inform him ‘the falcon has landed’ as soon as we were safely here.”

“The falcon is dead. We just received a raven as well; Robert is Lord Arryn now. Lord Jon passed of a fever not long after you left King’s Landing.”

There was a stunned silence. “That’s impossible,” Ser Vardis said at last. “Lord Jon was certainly tired, but to pass so suddenly…” Vardis seemed to want to say more, but he glanced about quickly and remained silent.

Ser Axell passed him a parchment. “Right here, in Grand Maester Pycelle’s own hand.”

The Vale knight read it and clenched it in his hand. “I must take your leave and tell Lord Robert,” he said, bowing stiffly. “He should hear the news from somebody familiar.”

Ser Axell nodded. “Gods damn this!” he exclaimed once Vardis was out of earshot. “Damn it all!”

“Perhaps it is better for the boy to be here…” Rolland suggested, but then Axell was shouting in his face. “What do you think will happen now? How suspicious do you think this looks?”

“Lord Arryn delivers his heir, the heir to the Vale and the Wardenship of the East, into our hands,” Aurane said helpfully. “And shortly afterwards, he dies, leaving our beloved Lord Stannis with far more power than he’s ever had. There’ll be plenty of whispers, and some who will not be so silent.”

“The lords of the Vale,” Ser Axell finished. “Yohn Royce, Anya Waynwood, Lyn Corbray. I imagine they’ll all come soon, with questions aplenty. And what do you think little Robert will say of Dragonstone, when they question him? What will they think when they see him shaking and complaining about everything here?” He paused and looked around the room. “Somebody will have to help Ser Vardis guard him, change his swaddling clothes if need be, make certain nothing gives him cause to complain. I will have no disaster happening with Lord Robert.”

“Not me,” Ser Richard said gruffly. “I have my duties with the men, not children.” He turned and left the room abruptly.

Aurane tried to look unconcerned as he abandoned his wall and fled the room. “Nor I. My _Sweet Selyse_ will be sailing tomorrow, on a mission from Lord Stannis himself.”

That left just Axell and Rolland. For a moment, the Bastard of Nightsong wondered what had possessed him to remain. Had it been concern for the boy that held his feet while the others ran? Was it some strange courage from the Warrior, a reluctance to abandon this fight? “I would do it myself,” Ser Axell was saying, “But I fear that anger for my beloved niece would inhibit my judgment and treatment of young Robert.”

“I shall do it.” The madness had gripped him completely. But it would be on his own terms, Rolland reflected, not Ser Axell’s. _What would I do with a son like him?_ he had wondered on the voyage. It was the Warrior he prayed to, not the Father. There had never been a father there for Rolland, but the Warrior had saved his life. Life had always been a battle, with no family to return to. And the boy would learn the same. _I’ll make a man out of you, Robert Arryn._


	3. Robert Arryn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, there was a couple scenes in this chapter that were very awkward for me to write. Just remember how Sweetrobin behaved towards Sansa.

 

* * *

**  
Robert Arryn**

* * *

 

_In which Sweetrobin’s protectors beg for patience, and an unexpected visitor arrives_

 

Robert Arryn was lonely.

Mother had always been there whenever he was hungry, or Joffrey hurt him, or Mandon Moore scared him. She would always be there to protect him, she had told him a hundred times. But now she was gone, and he was at the mercy of that evil bastard Rolland Storm and his scarred companions. There was nobody to cling to now.

It seemed that as soon as he grew to like somebody, that person was taken away. Ser Davos had been like a father to him, a real father rather than the busy old man who would sometimes pat him on the head. At first Davos told stories about his sons in the Stormlands, but Robert didn’t want to hear about other boys. So the old smuggler told stories of his adventures before he became a knight, and some from afterwards. Those were interesting stories. Mother had always talked of how Uncle Baelish had been so clever to rise from so low, and this man seemed like that. But while Lord Baelish scared Robert, Davos had an earthy charm that Robert found comfortable.

But shortly after the grumpy stag arrived, the old smuggler was sent away too. All he would say was that he was off to find an old friend, and that this friend could tell him even better stories. Robert cried as he watched the _Black Betha_ sailing away to the east.

Robert also liked the smiling knight who arrived a few days after Grumpy Stag. The knight would tell him as many stories as he wanted, and sneak him sweetmeats from the kitchens. Justin would also poke fun at the evil Rolland Storm and his scarred friends.

“Rolland Storm, Richard Horpe, and the Lady Shireen walked into a tavern,” Justin would begin.

“Shut up, Massey,” Storm and Horpe would say. “Why would I be in a tavern?” Shireen would ask.

But then Ser Justin was sent away as well. “I’m off to Myr,” the smiling knight told Robert with a wide smile, “to recruit sellswords.”

“I don’t like sellswords. They’re all ugly.”

“Of course, my lord. But Lord Stannis needs them for…well, they have their uses. Is there something you would like from Myr?”

Mother liked Myrish lenses, Robert knew. Lord Baelish had given her one a few days before he was taken away, but then she talked of having to send it away. So he made Ser Justin promise to find another one for her.

Even Vardis Egan was never around Robert. Mother had always liked him, but as soon as Grumpy Stag arrived, the two of them were always talking in rooms that Robert was not allowed to enter. He barely saw the Vale knight any more.

But the evil Rolland Storm was always there, and this knight would give Robert no sweetmeats and read him no stories. Nestor Royce’s mole had always scared him. But everything about Rolland’s face scared him, and so did rough Richard Horpe’s.

The first morning on Dragonstone, the evil knight woke Robert up when the sun was barely a quarter of the way across the sky and took him down to the practice yards to see how his sword-fighting was. The blade was knocked out his hand every time.

“He’ll never be able to fight,” the rough knight scoffed as he watched. “You’re wasting your time, Storm.”

That made Robert angry. “I can! Mother always said I was brave!” He picked up the wooden sword again, though it shook in his hand, and hit Richard with it. The knight shrugged. “I’m brave! I’m brave!” Robert shouted as he hit Richard again and again. He wanted to hurt him, but Horpe looked about as affected as a cat being petted. At last Rolland grabbed the sword and held it above his head. Robert tried to reach it, then burst into tears when he failed and huddled in a ball. “Give it back! I command it!”

At last he felt strong arms picking him up. He sobbed; no doubt he was being taken back to his rooms. He hated being awake in his rooms; they were so dark and gloomy, unlike the Eyrie. But when he was set down, he felt sand beneath him. He opened his eyes and found himself on the beaches of Dragonstone, gentle waves lapping at the shore.

“You can have your sword back,” Rolland told him as he bent down to look him in the eye, “when you do something for me. You see these four pieces of driftwood? Carry them back and forth the length of the beach a dozen times. Only then, you can have your sword back.”

He made it halfway down the beach before throwing down the wood and sobbing. “I hate you! I hate you! You’re a bastard!” he told Rolland, who had been jogging beside him.

“People have been telling me that for years, and I’m still here.” The knight seemed to be smiling as he knelt beside him, though that didn’t make sense. When he hated somebody, that person always seemed to go away. But Rolland made him pick up the wood and start over again. They did that every morning, and after three weeks Robert still did not have his sword back.

“Just leave me alone!” Robert wailed one day.

The knight scratched his head. “You’ve got a long way to go. You’ll be rid of me, but only when I’ve made a warrior out of you.”

“Mother said I was the bravest boy ever!”

Rolland seemed to be muttering something like “Warrior, grant me patience…now.” “Then pick up those logs,” he said aloud. “Do they frighten you?” And Robert had no choice but to obey and try again.

After breakfast, he would take lessons with Maester Cressen and the Princess Shireen. He had not wanted to be near her, but the day after Stannis arrived, Robert was called to the Chamber of the Painted Table to talk with the Grumpy Stag.

Stannis always scared Robert when they saw each other in King’s Landing, with the scowls and big words that he didn’t understand. Mother had once called Stannis a good man, though he would be kept far away since he frightened Robert. But a couple weeks before he was taken away from King’s Landing, Mother had begun whispering that Stannis might try to separate them. And mother had been right.

He found Grumpy Stag, as he always thought of Stannis, standing with his arms clasped behind his back. Ser Axell and Shireen stood to either side, with Cressen seated to the side.

“Ser Axell has told me of how you treated Shireen.” There would be no kind words in this mean man’s greeting. “You will not call my daughter ugly.” Every one of Stannis’ words cracked like a whip.

“But it’s the truth! She’s ugly!”

Grumpy Stag had looked utterly perplexed at how to answer that. At last, after grinding his teeth for a while, he continued, “You will learn your letters and maths and your histories from Maester Cressen here. I had thought for them to be with my daughter and with Ser Davos’ younger sons, who I have sent for. Your conduct, more befitting of a Tyrell than of the Lord of the Vale, made me reconsider.” He paused and ground his teeth some more. “But Shireen insists that she help with your lessons. If I hear that you have mistreated her, though, I shall…” he broke off and stared at Robert. “I am not entirely without mercy, but you shall be punished according to your just deserts.”

Robert had no idea what desserts had to do with it, but he nodded, frightened by Grumpy Stag’s glare.

At first, he hated Shireen. She would not just let him win hopfrog and spin-the-sword and come-into-my-castle. “It isn’t the right way,” she said when he complained that he used to always win. And she was always infuriatingly puzzled whenever he told her how brave he was.

The worst of it, though, was how she kept after him to learn to read and write. “A maester can do that for me,” he complained. But she was too stubborn. _Baratheons._

One day even she seemed to lose patience. “I learned to read at three. Is there something wrong with you?”

“I’m lonely!” he cried. “Everybody is so mean here.”

Robert had been so lonely that that dreadful first night, wondering where his mother’s breast was. It was always so comforting to be held close, to feel another’s pulse. So he had wandered around Dragonstone, looking for a woman’s chambers. He found one at last and nuzzled up against the sleeping inhabitant.

Selyse Florent had shrieked so loudly that it hurt his head. And then there had been what seemed to be dozens of armed men all around. He had begun shaking after that, which seemed to perplex all the men immensely. At the Eyrie and in the household in King’s Landing, everybody knew what to do. At least Rolland Storm had decided to sleep on a mat outside his room after that night. It had given Robert some small satisfaction to see the evil knight suffer.

To his surprise, Shireen now wrapped him in her thin arms. “Do you think you’re the only child who’s ever been lonely?” she whispered.

From then he always followed Shireen around during the day. He couldn’t tell if she was pleased or perplexed or annoyed, and he didn’t care. As for nights, Stannis had stood in front of Robert and glared for a full minute when he tried to enter Shireen’s chambers. So he had to stay in his own chambers and endure Rolland Storm’s snoring. He now regretted being glad about the evil knight having to sleep with him. He got back a bit of satisfaction by throwing his porridge at Rolland whenever they dined together. 

But one day, a few weeks after arriving, the rhythm of life was interrupted. “Your lords bannermen will be arriving to visit, likely tomorrow,” Stannis told, staring down at him. “Royce, Waynwood, Corbray, Grafton, the lot of the great southern and eastern Valelords. I expect you to do your utmost to be on your best behavior.”

Robert nodded, telling himself to ask Shireen what ‘utmost’ meant. But he had not even had the chance to do so, that evening as they walked along the docks, before another surprise came. A ship had just docked from King’s Landing, to the surprise of all in the castle.

But Robert knew the man stepping onto the dock, a cheery smile on his face, the silvery cloak with mockingbirds rustling in the sea breeze.


	4. Maester Cressen

 

 

* * *

  **Maester Cressen**

* * *

_In the Valelords have their say, and sundry characters arrive on Dragonstone_

The maester slowly ascended the steps of the Stone Drum, waving off Ser Richard’s offered arm. The steps were old companions, though they grew more painful each day. But Lord Stannis had summoned him to attend him, and that was enough.

Cressen wondered how many more times he would have to climb those steps in the coming months. The island was full of comings and goings these days. Stannis had arrived a scant week after young Lord Robert, to be immediately closeted with Ser Vardis Egen. Ser Davos had sailed for Lys soon after to find his old friend Salladhor Saan; Ser Justin, who had arrived soon after Stannis, took another ship for Myr to gather sellswords and sellsails. _If only I could serve him as well as these younger men_ , Cressen thought sadly, thinking of the deadly secret that Stannis had imparted to him. A new, younger maester had just been sent for from Oldtown. The number of unfamiliar faces on the island steadily grew, a constant reminder that he was no longer as familiar a companion to his lord. And now the Valelords had come.

Most of them had arrived that hour, on a Gulltown ship flying the burning yellow tower of the Graftons. The letter they had sent ahead listed them all. Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars. Horton Redfort, Lord of Redfort. Anya Waynwood, Lady of Ironoaks. Gilwood Hunter of Longbow Hall, representing his old father Lord Eon. Lyn Corbray of Heart’s Home. Gerold Grafton, Lord of Gulltown, and Jon Lynderly, Lord of the Snakewood. And leading them, the redoubtable Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone.

One other lord had arrived the night before, though, and was now waiting with Lord Stannis in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Petyr Baelish had taken a seat beside Stannis—his own customary seat, Cressen realized. He did not say a word as he took a seat on Stannis’ opposite side, beside Ser Axell and Ser Vardis. There was an uneasy silence as Stannis stared away from Baelish and the Master of Coin stroked his goatee, an air of unconcern on his face but not in his eyes.

They all stood when the other Valelords entered the room, a blaze of color and steel. Yohn Royce nodded slightly to Stannis, then pulled up short when he saw Baelish. “We did not think to find you here, Littlefinger,” Yohn said.

“The Fingers are quite easy to overlook, I know,” Baelish answered. “But I am a Valelord, just as much as all of you. And your declared purpose—looking after the safety and welfare of our liege lord—is mine as well. I can assure you, though, from my years serving with Lord Stannis, that young Lord Robert is quite safe in his hands.”

The Valelords looked at each other, as surprised as Stannis had been by Baelish’s declaration. “We would see the truth of that ourselves, Littlefinger,” Lyn Corbray declared.

“Why, then I think one of you would be sufficient for that.”

Lyn Corbray chuckled. “The mockingbird chirps for the lobster. How quaint.”

“Are you Lord Stannis’ lapdog, to speak in his stead?” Symond Templeton demanded, staring coldly at Baelish. The tension was already thickening in the room with every word spoken. “We came to speak with the master of Dragonstone, not you.”

“Yes!” Jon Lynderly shouted.

“As you wish.” Baelish bowed slightly, and sat back as if bored by the whole proceeding.

Stannis had remained silent and brooding through the exchange. _Say something,_ Cressen had begged in his mind. _Take the next word._ But Stannis would speak when and with what pleased him, and this was not the time. It had always been that way; Stannis might speak his mind freely with one person, but a large group all speaking at once was not his realm.

“Very well,” Yohn Royce finally said. “We believe it would be best for young Robert to return to the Vale, where he belongs. To meet with his future subjects, not keep company with sellswords and sailors; to gain strength and health, not live on a dark, smoky island.”

Stannis looked up, as if surprised by the directness from a noble. “It was Lord Arryn’s wish that Robert be fostered here at Dragonstone. Therefore, I am his rightful guardian.”

“And yet you had him brought here by a lowborn smuggler, on a foreign ship,” Lyn Corbray put in. “And shortly afterwards, before he might interfere, the father dies.”

“You would accuse me of murdering Lord Arryn?” Stannis’ face darkened with silent fury.

Anya Waynwood spoke up. “We do not accuse you, but we would have an answer for why such secrecy was needed, as if there was something that required hiding.”

“Yes!” Jon Lynderly shouted.

“It was my duty to Lord Jon for it to be done discreetly,” Stannis answered. “More than that, I cannot say.”

“So convenient to have a duty to a dead man.” Lyn Corbray fingered Lady Forlorn.

“Do you presume to claim that Lord Jon would entrust you with a secret that his own lords cannot hear?” Gerold Grafton demanded. Stannis was silent.

“You know Ser Vardis here to be a man of honor,” Ser Axell put it. “He can testify that it was the Hand’s wish.”

“Aye,” said the Vale knight. “His last words to me were to see the boy safe to Dragonstone.”

Yohn Royce and Horton Redfort seemed satisfied, but Symond Templeton spoke up. “His own last words, or words whispered in his ears by men who had gained his trust in his dotage?” He looked pointedly at Stannis and Petyr Baelish.

“Stay your tongue, ser,” Anya Waynwood interrupted sharply. “Let us not dishonor Lord Jon’s memory. But back to the matter at hand. You cannot deny the strangeness of the circumstances by which Lord Robert came to you, when his own mother barely knew of it, and yet you will not explain them.”

“And what would you have done with the boy instead?” Stannis shot back. “Would you have him return to his mother’s teats?”

The Valelords looked at each other, before Anya Waynwood continued speaking for them. “We would permit him to remain in the Eyrie with the Widow Arryn for three months out of each year. He would be in Runestone for most of the rest, with visits to the rest of the Vale. Unlike you, Lord Yohn has raised sons of his own; there is no man more fit to foster his young lordship. In Runestone the boy will learn the arts of war from Strong Sam Stone. No man could hope for a finer master-at-arms. Septon Lucos will instruct him in matters of the spirit and Maester Helliweg will care for his health, which the smell of sulfur here will certainly not help. At Runestone he will also find other boys his own age, more suitable companions than the soldiers and lowborn sailors that presently surround him.”

“For companions, my squires Devan Seaworth and Bryen Farring are but a few years older,” Stannis answered, “And I have sent for Ser Davos’ youngest sons...”

“Worse than bastards,” Gilwood Hunter sneered. “The sons of a criminal, a smuggler. Certainly not fit companions for the Lord of the Vale.”

Stannis ground his teeth. “Ser Davos has paid for his crimes. And yet he was far more honorable than many knights I know. When we were all starving in Storm’s End, even the women and children, it was he who came to the rescue with his onions. Where were your ‘suitable companions’ then? Do you not think it better for Lord Robert to learn from the deeds of one who would risk everything for others?”

That was a very poor thing to say, Cressen thought. The Vale lords were prickly and proud of their birth, besides the fact that so many of them had fought bravely on one side or the other in the rebellion. Even the ones who had seemed somewhat mollified by Ser Vardis’ words darkened.

“Ser Rolland, “ Stannis continued, “while he might not have the experience of your Strong Sam, has a great deal of patience and honor. Septon Barre will instruct Robert in the Faith.” Stannis spoke no words of praise for the septon that he did not believe, Cressen noted. “As for lessons, Robert is studying under Maester Cressen, who you might remember taught King Robert and myself, along with mine own daughter. The Vale is prominent in the lessons.”

“The last time I saw you in the Vale, Lord Stannis, you were hanging Valemen,” Gerold Grafton spoke up sourly.

“Gulltown smugglers, no doubt,” Yohn Royce muttered, cutting Grafton off. “But hearing of the Vale is not the same as being in the Vale. Lord Robert has been away from his people too long; I must question the reason you insist on keeping him here, when you cannot answer our basic questions about _why_ he is here.”

_The secret,_ Cressen thought, _the secret Lord Stannis cannot tell for fear of those in this room; who they will tell, or what they will do. The secret that will require allies in the future. The duty to Robert and the realm, though Lord Stannis would now rather have Sweetrobin a thousand miles away. But are the prickled prides worth the cost? Would it be better to let the boy go, and trust that they would answer his call later?_

“My duty to Lord Arryn.”

“Duty…or ambition, perhaps?” suggested Lyn Corbray. “Desire to have control of the Lord of the Vale, a land far more prosperous and powerful than these bare rocks?”

“Why, Lord Stannis could have been named Warden of the East, and might yet be.” They had almost forgotten about Baelish, so now they all listened closely as he spoke. “King Robert was considering it when I suggested it, before he bestowed it on Renly.”

It was a new wound that reopened old ones, and the wounds from brothers would not stay hidden. “First Storm’s End, and now the Wardenship,” Stannis muttered.

Lyn Corbray chuckled, and the Valelords glanced at each other, several obviously satisfied. “And there we have it,” Anya Waynwood said at last. “You speak of your rights, Lord Stannis, but we ask of young Robert’s, and it would seem they come second to yours. The Warden of the East has always been from House Arryn. You are the Lord of Dragonstone, and nothing more. We will not allow the Lord of the Vale to remain here as a pawn in your ambitions.”

Stannis could only grind his teeth. _Speak,_ Cressen begged again. _Break this impasse._ But again, he only saw the child who clung to duty and could not comprehend why others did not understand that. The child who clung…there was only one chance. “You speak of what is good for Lord Robert. Bring him here, and judge from what you see of him. Perhaps even let him decide if he would rather stay here or return to the Vale.”

Symond Templeton and Gilwood Hunter burst out laughing, Gerold Grafton slapped his knee, and even Anya Waynwood smiled. “I imagine the boy’s answer will be quite straightforward,” Lyn Corbray guffawed.

“Yes!” Jon Lynderly shouted.

“Maester, I did not give you leave to speak…” Lord Stannis began, but the Valelords would not let him finish.

“He might be a boy, but he is still a Lord Paramount, unlike you,” declared Gerold Grafton. “The maester is right.”

Yohn Royce nodded. “Ser Lyn, fetch the boy.”

Cressen breathed a silent word of thanks when Ser Lyn returned without porridge dripping from his face. _Let me be right,_ he begged. _Let my judgment still be sound._

* * *

His hope was not in vain. The boy was sullen at being taken from his midday meal with Shireen, but the month of torturous lessons for Cressen, the sleepless nights and thankless days for Rolland, the self-effacing attention from Shireen, had not been useless. Caught by their own words, the Valelords had to admit that Robert had improved greatly, and at the end the little lord emphatically declared that they couldn’t take him from Dragonstone.

So first Redfort and Royce, then Hunter, then Waynwood and the others agreed that they would accept Sweetrobin remaining with Stannis. Lyn Corbray declared that he would remain to look after his welfare, though, and so did Gilwood Hunter. And then, as abruptly as they had arrived, the Valelords were gone, in a swirl of cloaks and steel. They seemed to follow Ser Axell out in pairs: Templeton and Corbray, Redfort and Hunter, Grafton and Lynderly, till only three remained.

Stannis coughed. “Lady Waynwood,” he said awkwardly. “I tha…I owe you a debt. For reminding me of my duties, as well as my rights.”

Anya Waynwood nodded slightly. “I will take the wellbeing of Lord Robert as my thanks. I must warn you though, now that he is certainly staying here, others will certainly come to attend Lord Robert.” The rest was left unsaid—the pack of jackals who would come in search of favors and influence from the Lord Paramount and his guardian.

Yohn Royce gave Stannis a measured look with his grey eyes. “It seems you have won. Keep the boy safe and make a man out of him, Lord Stannis, and we may meet again on better terms.” Then he offered his arm to Lady Waynwood, and they were gone.

“Why, I’m sure the boy will be quite safe here,” Petyr Baelish chuckled, getting to his feet. “I’ve seen how many loyal knights are around. I almost wonder if you keep the scarred ones so that your daughter shines more brightly.”

“My daughter needs no adornment.”

“What a pity. I know plenty of ladies who could assist her greatly in attracting young Lord Robert.”

Teeth were ground and veins clenched. “I do not know what your game is, Baelish, or what you seek to gain. You are here under guest right. But I will not abide you and your insults towards my daughter here on this island.”

“Why, you forget all the times I spoke for you. I only seek to be of service,” Baelish said, spreading his hands wide. “I will take my leave then. While I have no doubt King’s Landing is safe in Grand Maester Pycelle’s capable hands, I do fear what he is doing to my girls.” He gave a slight, mocking bow and left the room.

Stannis brooded. “I did not give you leave to speak, maester,” Stannis he finally said, when it was just the two of them, as it had been so many times before. “What madness took hold of you? To depend on the whims of a child?”

“Because Robert reminded me of another young boy I knew, when what he held dear was taken away. When to cling to something gave him comfort.”

Stannis ground his teeth. “You do not speak of me. I even abandoned the gods that night, as you should remember. I cling to no person.”

“No.” Cressen gave a sad smile. “You decided to cling to duty.”

Later, the maester stood between the wyverns on his balcony to watch the evening tableau. Below he could see Ser Rolland having Robert run laps on the beach with two logs under each arm. The boy finished six laps before throwing them down. He did not cry this time, though. Lyn Corbray whispered something to Gilwood Hunter as they watched, and the two snickered. On the docks, strangers, Valemen from the two nobles’ entourages it would seem, unloaded their luggage and carried it into the castle. One of them looked up and smiled broadly at the Maester with crooked teeth. And at another dock, a ship from Essos was also docking. He caught a flash of red, a brilliant red, though he could not tell if it was the sunset.

_I have done my duty for Stannis,_ Cressen thought, _for the boy that was and the boy who still is._ But he could not shake a vague feeling of unease as he turned to go inside.


	5. Catelyn Stark

 

* * *

  **CATELYN STARK**

* * *

 

_In which the Eyrie yawns, and Mord gets no new teeth_

 

“We have arrived at the Eyrie, my lady.”

“Thank you, Hal.” Hallis Mollen’s comments had started to become wearisome, but she could hardly consider his company unwelcome. So many others—Ser Willis Wode, the Bracken men, the two sellswords, the Imp’s serving men—lay dead and unburied along the bloody path to the Bloody Gate. Eight men had died to bring them to safety. _Could I have been wrong?_ Catelyn wondered, not for the first time. But what choice did she have? Any other way but the high road would have invited pursuit. And she needed answers, from the Imp and from Lysa.

“And not a moment too soon.” Ser Brynden helped her up the last steps. She closed her eyes for a moment, finally being able to let the evening wind whip around her without fear. “It’ll be dark soon, and a night ascent is an invitation for a broken neck. Even Lysa should know that.”

“No harm would have come to you with me.” Of their little company, Mya was the least perturbed. “I’ve made the dark climb a hundred times. Mychel says my father must have been a goat, or a dragon.”

“You mentioned Mychel before.”

“Mychel’s my love,” Mya explained. “Mychel Redfort. We’re to be wed as soon as he becomes a knight, next year or the year after. He’s gone now, though, squiring for Lyn Corbray on Dragonstone. So many of the young men are going there now.”

Indeed, the Eyrie was quiet as a crypt. Ned had told her there would usually be dozens of visiting knights and lords in attendance, but only the captain of guards, Ser Marwyn Belmore, and Maester Coleman were there to greet her; and only a few curious eyes followed her as they led Catelyn to the solar, where Lysa waited.

Lysa wore the black robes of a widow, with a black shawl clutched around her shoulders. “Oh Cat, how good it is to see you,” she said. “Leave us,” she told the others.

She held Catelyn’s hand as they withdrew, but dropped it the instant the door closed. Catelyn saw her face change. It was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Lysa snapped at her. “To bring him here, without a word of permission, without so much as a warning, to drag us into your quarrels with the Lannisters...”

“My quarrels?” Catelyn could scarce believe what she was hearing. A great fire burned in the hearth, but there was no trace of warmth in Lysa’s voice. “They were your quarrels first, sister. It was you who sent me that cursed letter, you who wrote that the Lannisters had murdered your husband.”

“To warn you, so you could stay away from them! I never meant to fight them! Gods, Cat, do you know what you’ve done?” Lysa clutched the shawl closer. “There’s enemies all around out there, and you bring one of them here to the Eyrie!”

_The enemy lies only to the West,_ Catelyn wanted to say, but Lysa would not listen. “Yohn Royce swore he would bring my Sweetrobin back, but he came back from Dragonstone eating out of Lord Stannis’ hand. I told him never to show his face in the Eyrie again. Templeton, Hunter, Redfort, they all ignore me now. Who knows if they will even answer me, if I call for their aid? I thought Lord Stannis was a friend, but he betrayed me as well.”

“The Lannisters,” Catelyn exclaimed, “What about the Lannisters? You said that they killed Jon Arryn, and now they have tried to kill my son Bran.”

“Oh, yes.” Lysa turned to stare into the fire. “Your son. You will never know what it is like to lose a son. I lost all my sweet little babies, three boys and three girls, all but Robert. Robert, my Sweetrobin, my dear boy. They took him away in the morning. Did you know, I barely had time to say farewell to him. Jon did not tell me until just before he delivered my Sweetrobin to a nasty lowborn smuggler.” She turned on Catelyn. “Do you know that pain?”

Catelyn held up her scarred hands in mute testimony. “I do not, but I would do anything to protect my children. And yet here I am, because sometimes cowering away with them does yet more harm. I stayed with my Brandon, and the assassin came to him.” _Let Lysa understand_ , she begged. She did not know what else to say.

And yet again, her sister returned to Sweetrobin. “Cat, you must help bring Sweetrobin back from Dragonstone. If the Lannisters try to kill him too, he will be so much safer here, with me, with loyal guards.”

“Our master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, has gone to Dragonstone. He went to talk to Ser Vardis Egen about the dagger and about Jon Arryn’s poisoning. He will also see about young Robert’s safety.”

Lysa looked startled, then clutched Catelyn’s arm. “You mustn’t trust Ser Vardis, no, not him. I trusted him, but then he helped Lord Stannis take away my Sweetrobin.”

“Lord Stannis is not your enemy. Clearly, Lord Jon trusted him enough to entrust young Robert to him.”

“He is ambitious. He wants control of the Vale, of my Sweetrobin. And he tricked Jon, just as the Lannisters tricked him into trusting them.”

Something was nagging at the back of Catelyn’s mind, something that didn’t quite fit, something dark. But Lysa appeared to have shaken off her apathy. “What do you mean to do with the Imp?” she demanded.

“I mean to question him, something we could not do safely anywhere else. I ask that you allow us to keep him here, in the safety of your dungeons, until we have answers. He is being brought up in the winch; he may even be here now.”

“Then we must go see him.” Lysa wrapped her shawl closer and swept out the room, Catelyn trailing behind.

By then the rest of those present in the Eyrie had gathered in the High Hall to see the spectacle—Brynden, Hallis, and Mya Stone; Marwyn Belmore and a few dozen guardsmen and servants; a Waxley knight; a few Grafton and Lynderly men; a Waynwood cousin and a Belmore nephew; a hedge knight with bristly orange hair. She would have to remind Hallis Mollen to keep a closer guard on his tongue, once again.

“Tyrion the Imp, of House Lannister,” Lysa called out, her voice echoing off the slender marble pillars. The shadows were so deep now that they seemed black, the light from the few torches flickering off them like dancing maidens. “You killed my husband, Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale and Hand of the King!”

“Oh, did I kill him too? It would seem I’ve been a busy little fellow. I wonder when I found the time to do all this slaying and murdering.”

“You are not being held for that…” Catelyn began, but Lysa ignored her.

“See?” Lysa’s voice rose shrilly, addressing those present. “He does not deny it. He only tries to hide behind his forked tongue and hateful words. Do you want justice for your murdered lord?”

“Aye!” some shouted.

“Then justice we shall have, for my murdered husband, for your murdered lord. Ser Marwyn, open the Moon Door!”

The captain of the guards hesitiated. “My lady,” he called, “what do you mean to do with the Imp?”

“To see justice done to him! Do you not want justice for your Lord Jon?”

“Lysa, this is madness…” Cat whispered, but to her relief the captain of guards folded his arms. “My lady, none will dare say that I lacked in regard or respect for Lord Arryn. But there is no justice, or honor, in killing an unarmed man without a trial. And you have no authority to try him; you are only the widow of Lord Arryn, and by the sufferance of the Lords of the Vale, Lady of the Eyrie. If my position as your captain of guards binds me to obey you, then you must find a new captain.”

Lysa’s voice rose shrilly. “Then begone! Uncle Brynden! You are the Captain of the Gate, and my uncle. Will you betray me too?”

Brynden stepped forwards. The laughter was gone from his eyes. “I followed you here to the Vale, niece, because of the innocent girl you once were and because of all the high hopes you once had. I thought to keep that from being destroyed. But continue down this path, and you can bloody well find yourself a new Knight of the Gate. No man of honor will serve you then.”

Lysa’s face had turned a burning pink. All the color had gone out of her hands, so tightly did she grip them. “Will no man rid me of this wretched dwarf?” she cried.

A few of the men shuffled on their feet, but nobody stepped forwards. Catelyn breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

“We shall rid you of him, sister.” The last word seemed to stick in her throat now. How had Lysa gone so far, so quickly? Was there anything that could have been done to save her, and her reputation? But it was too late now. Already some of the knights were slipping away. “We leave on the morrow. For Gulltown.”


	6. Arya Stark

 

* * *

  **ARYA** **STARK**

* * *

 

_In which the paths of swords are shown, and Ser Rodrik returns to King’s Landing_

 

The tavern sat on the edge of two worlds.

On one side, the Street of Steel wound down from Visenya’s Hill, grandly making its progress to the Muddy Way and the Mud Gate. On the other, little alleys traced a drunken path to Aegon’s High Hill and the Red Keep. Arya knew all those little streets by heart; she knew the peddlers, and the septons, and which shops had the best bowls of brown, and when in the morning the lady in the house with the worn latticework emptied a chamberpot into the middle of the street. There was something comforting about being able to disappear into those winding alleys, away from everything.

But she didn’t want to enter that tavern across the Muddy Way. She felt like a mouse, waiting to scurry across an open floor. And so she waited in the dimming evening light.

A man with a mane of dark hair drifted into view. He leaned heavily against a hitching post, looking her over with lidded eyes. “Who’re you?” he asked.

“Tell me who you are first.”

“Hobb the woodcutter,” the man muttered. “Been called Hobb in our family, long as we can remember. Back till when ‘ere were draguns.” The smell of cheap wine was heavy in his breath. “Yur a nice ‘un,” he mumbled, seeming to have forgotten about her name. He pushed himself off the post and staggered towards her.

“Go away,” Arya said. She glanced around, but there were no gold cloaks in view. A few passerbyers threw a glance in their direction, but nothing more. She shouldn’t expect anything else, she told herself sharply; the bitterness from how nobody had stopped Lady and Micah from being killed, and Nymeria having to be driven off, still hung heavy.

But then a heavy hand landed on the man’s shoulder. “Piss off,” the larger man ordered, looking down at the drunkard.

Hobb spat and scurried off. “Best come inside,” the tall man declared, wrapping his red robes closer around his belly. “The streets are not safe for a child like you. A man can’t even take a piss in peace.”

Arya swallowed; there was no turning back now. She followed the man back into the tavern. “You’re Thoros of Myr,” she declared. “The red priest.”

“And you are Arya Stark. I saw you watching the melee yesterday. Best not be wandering the streets alone.” And with that he plopped back down on a bench to nurse his pint. Arya was left standing, to her dismay. There were others at the table. A few men who she didn’t recognize, the freckled Stormlander who had won the archery tournament—she had paid close attention to that—and…Desmond and…?

“Underfoot!” Harwin exclaimed, looking up from his mug. “Didn’t expect you here.” He turned to the others at the table, who were now curiously regarding Arya. “This, friends, is Arya Stark, our esteemed Hand’s younger daughter, better known as Underfoot, and probably supposed to be in bed.”

“Well, she ain’t in bed,” one of the strangers put in. “She’s here. Reckon she wants to polish off a pint or two?”

The archer smacked him on the head. “Have yourself some manner, Kem.” He started to bring his mug to his lips before setting it down smoothly. “Have a seat, Arya,” he shouted, pushing to his feet and bowing low. “There’s a couple girls waiting for me,” he told the others as he swaggered away. “Roast swan and fine girls, with enough money on me to buy King’s Landing!”

The stranger ignored the archer. “But what else’d she be here for?”

“Not for your company, Kem. Obviously she’s here to discover the Lord of Light, though he does come in many forms.” The others hooted with Thoros, though Arya didn’t see what was so funny. “Cheers to that!” the archer shouted from across the room.

“Thoros, this was the only place I knew to find you,” Arya began as she took her seat beside the red priest, but now everybody was paying attention. “Drink! Drink!” somebody began shouting, and half the tavern began repeating it, though she was sure some had no idea why. And Harwin and Desmond were shouting with the others. It wasn’t fair, she thought.

There was a time when she would have enjoyed sneaking in and listening to them. Maybe she’d have sneaked a sip or two; Septa Mordane wasn’t there to scold her, and it wasn’t as if the septa had room to talk; Arya had seen how much she drank at feasts. But she hated the sounds of their voices now, the way they laughed, the stories they told. They’d been her friends, she’d felt safe around them, but now she knew that was a lie. They’d let the queen kill Lady, that was horrible enough, but then the Hound found Mycah. Jeyne Poole had told Arya that he’d cut him up in so many pieces that they’d given him back to the butcher in a bag, and at first the poor man had thought it was a pig they’d slaughtered. And no one had raised a voice or drawn a blade or anything. She felt helpless in it all.

There was a clink as a pewter mug was set in front of her. She looked up at Desmond’s grinning face and wanted to kick him. But when she defiantly lifted it to her lips, she only tasted foam. There was only a little ale at the bottom, she realized; Desmond had had it filled mostly with foam. She glanced appreciately at him, and Desmond gave a slight nod. “Underfoot!” the men began cheering as she downed the mug. “What’s an underfoot?” grumbled Kem.

But finally the cheering died down, and the crowd lost interest and went back to what they had been doing. “Thoros,” Arya said again, “I saw you fighting in the melee. I want you to teach me how to swordfight, how to do what you did.” Thoros hadn’t had to hide at all; it was the others who ran from him and his burning sword. Arya wanted to be like that, to not be a mouse anymore. She thought bitterly of having to hide with Nymeria, all because of that stupid prince. She’d seen how he and the Hound had flinched when Thoros had been fighting in front of the royal box. “I have a sword,” she continued when the red priest burst out laughing, slapping a meaty hand over his belly.

“Sneaking a sword out the armory doesn’t count,” Harwin put in gravely.

“It’s mine,” she declared, slipping out Needle from underneath her cloak. “Can you teach me how to use this, to light it on fire? Father had Jory teach me, but he’s always busy. Says he has to go look for a certain building.”

The men chortled. “Why, if he needs to find a brothel, send him our way,” Thoros chuckled. “We can point him in the right direction.”

“But can you teach me?”

“How much are you willing to pay?”

Arya bit her lip. “I…I’m sure Father will pay you.”

“Lord Eddard will be paying for quite a few new swords,” Desmond hooted.  

Thoros set the mug down and leaned back. “Girl,” he said, “There’s a few things I believe in. Wine, ale, tits, swords, wildfire, good friends. Gold helps with that, for certain. But I don’t see any gold with you, and teaching you is time in which I can’t enjoy these. So no.”

“But…”

“The answer is no and will remain no. So go home with Desmond unless you want me to buy you another mug of ale, little girl.”

Arya suddenly wished Desmond hadn’t been so kind. She wanted to kick something badly. Looking wistfully at Needle, she slipped it back inside her cloak.

* * *

 

Jory didn’t have time to teach her the next day, either.

“Your father has quarreled with the King,” he said apologetically. “I have…preparations I must make. So just don’t leave the palace; your father may need you at any moment.”

But Jory was lying, she decided when she saw her father riding out later that day, Littlefinger beside him and Jory trailing behind with Wyl and Heward. _We’re all liars here_ , she remembered Littlefinger saying in his silky tones. _Even Jory._

She slipped out after that, directing her steps towards the docks. But she realized that there was something different about the evening buzz. There was a commotion of some sort, far more than normal. “What is it?” she asked one of the gathering crowd.

“Body turned up in the harbor,” somebody answered before the crowd pressed between them .

“Who’s gotten it?” an old lady with a tattered hood asked. “Best not have been my boy.”

“Not one o’ our folks,” Arya heard a man saying. “Some traveler got himself knifed. Body jes’ showed up in the harbor today.”

Arya wiggled and squirmed her way through the crowd before finally reaching the waterfront. A wedge of goldcloaks had formed to push through the crowd, two more of their number carrying a body between them. She was so close…

“Out of the way, brat,” snapped a goldcloak, shoving her aside.

The angry retort on her lips died when she caught a glimpse of the face. Even without the magnificent whiskers, she knew Ser Rodrick.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word about Arya. She’s one of my favorite female characters of ASOIAF (along with Shireen, Anya Waynwood, and Willow Heddle), and her adventures in the Riverlands are one of my favorite parts of the books. Here, without Syrio Forel sacrificing himself, that isn’t going to happen. 
> 
> I wanted to explore an Arya taken in a different direction from canon, as many other characters already have. Without Syrio’s life lessons, this is a more vulnerable Arya, yet an Arya with the accumulated resentments she had before she was able to direct them into her water dancing. I am excited to see where this different Arya takes my writing, and I hope you will forgive and allow me that.
> 
> The in-universe explanation for why Syrio Forel hasn’t shown up is hinted at in the first Rolland Storm chapter, when Davos befriends the merchant captain and he promises to return and trade on Dragonstone. The merchant ship that Davos chartered, the Lady Bright, was an actual ship that travelled between Braavos and King’s Landing with merchandise and some passengers. I figured that Syrio must have arrived in King’s Landing not long before the events of AGOT, as he wasn’t employed yet, and obviously by ship. Here, the Lady Bright stopped at Dragonstone on the way back to Westeros so that the captain could follow up on his contact with Davos, and Stannis, who is looking for good swords, hired Forel, who was a passenger on it.


	7. Rolland Storm

 

* * *

  **ROLLAND STORM**

* * *

 

_In which Ser Vardis has his finest hour, and a lord is no more_

 

“Lord of Light, defend us. The night is dark and full of terrors.” Lady Selyse led the responses, her pinched face full of fervor. “Lord of Light, protect us.”

“R’hllor who gave us breath, we thank you,” sang the red priestess. “R’hllor who gave us day, we thank you.”

“We thank you for the sun that warms us,” Lady Selyse and Axell Florent and Godry Farring and the other worshipers replied. “We thank you for the stars that watch us. We thank you for our hearths and for our torches, that keep the savage dark at bay.” The nightfire crackled and glowed, flickering up onto the balcony where the two knights stood.

“I like this not.” Rolland watched the firelight washing across where his hands gripped the balcony, before the shadows took them again.

“Lord Stannis scorns them,” Ser Vardis pointed out, “as do all the Valemen. No doubt their new-found faith will glow bright, then burn away like that nightfire.”

“Scorn will not deter these.” Rolland took a last glance at the fervent faces below them, before turning away. “Come, their faith may sustain them, but I am in need of more earthly sustenance.”

Dragonstone’s dining hall was filled with laughter. At the end of the tables, a jester Lyn Corbray had brought somersaulted around Patchface. The old fool tumbled about after the jester, the bells on his hat dinging away. Mychel Redfort and Ben Coldwater were arm-wrestling, with a crowd laying down wagers around them. At another table, bluff Gerald Gower was singing a ballad. _“I’ve tasted the Dornishman’s wife…”_

“I’ve never seen Lord Stannis’ hall so merry,” Ser Vardis remarked as they sat down.

“The fact that Lord Stannis is not here might have something to do with that,” Rolland remarked, glancing towards the high table where the Lady Shireen sat with Robert Arryn, Lord Velaryon, and Gilwood Hunter. Lord Stannis was not there though, or Maester Cressen or the new assistant maester. _Where is Lord Stannis?_ he wondered. The lord had not been among the worshippers at the nightfire, nor had Rolland seen him for the past few hours. It was not like Lord Stannis to be late, even if he ate and said nothing during supper.

Rolland glanced over again, just in time to see Robert stabbing a dumpling from Shireen’s plate. As he was eating it, Shireen quietly slipped a bun off _his_ plate. The boy turned angrily towards her, then stopped and laughed at something Shireen whispered, the girl joining in the laughter.

“The boy’s learning from our lord. _The dumplings are mine by rights_ ,” Justin Massey mimed as he leaned towards them, dropping his voice and scowling in imitation of Lord Stannis. “All those who deny it are my foes.” Justin laughed heartily at his own joke and then went back to talking with Lyn Corbray.

Vardis Egan chuckled, then turned to Rolland. “You don’t seem amused. Are you still bitter about that Braavosi taking over young Robert’s sword instruction?”

Rolland shook his head. “No; I’m not too proud to recognize a better swordsman.” The Braavosi had been walking about while the captain of the ship he was taking from Braavos to Kings Landing, Luco Prestayn of the _Lady Bright_ , fulfilled his promise to visit Dragonstone and deal with Davos again. Coming upon Rolland attempting to train Sweetrobin at the sword, Syrio Forel had intervened, saying that a different style was needed for the boy. Lyn Corbray had been watching and mocking, and challenged the Braavosi to a duel. After it was all over, Lord Stannis had presented Forel with a contract. “But I don’t want young Robert to be like Lord Stannis,” Rolland continued. “Oh, I’m sure that there’s plenty that can be learned from Lord Stannis. But bitterness and cynicism? For all that he has been and still is a brat, Sweetrobin doesn’t have that. Now, I’ve never been a father, but you have; surely you can understand not wanted that to happen to somebody you’ve…become attached to.”

“I can, though you seem quite critical of Lord Stannis for one who follows him so loyally.”

“Oh, I came into his service and didn’t find anything else more exciting. Surely you have your own reasons for continuing to follow Lord Jon’s wishes, even though he’s dead?”

“I do. There were three of us who scaled the walls of Gulltown ahead of Jon Arryn.” Ser Vardis paused reflectively. “I’ll never forget, Mandon Moore carving a bloody path along the walls without ever saying a word, Creighton Tollett laughing ridiculously as he always would, and myself just trying to stay alive. Creighton died that day; Jon Arryn had Mandon made a Kingsguard, and myself commander of his household guard. Jon Arryn was a good man.” He took a sip of his wine. “I wonder how Mandon’s doing. As for me, I now have but two duties left to do for old Lord Arryn.” Vardis would say no more, but sat silently in contemplation, leaving Rolland to eat his roast in more customary quiet.

He caught sight of Davos picking up a loaf of bread and leaving the table. “Where to?” he asked as the old smuggler passed by.

“To sup with Salladhor Saan and Syrio Forel. Salladhor’s cook is preparing a Lyseni dinner. Saan insisted that I bring some bread from here, so he could say that he broke bread from Lord Stannis.” In between Syrio Forel threatening to bring Salladhor and Davos to justice as pirates and Salladhor waving his contract from Lord Stannis, the two Essosi had become inseparable, down to their disdain for Westerosi cuisine.

But before Davos could leave, the chatter in the hall died down. Lord Stannis had entered, followed by the maesters. The scowl on his face was deeper than usual, if possible. He strode to the head table, a hundred pairs of eyes tracking him. “His majesty the king, Robert…my brother…is dead,” he announced once he reached the front of the room. Lord Stannis ignored the tumult of whispers. “He was gored by a boar on a hunt and died the next morning. Lord Stark is dead as well. When summoned to give homage to Joffrey, he refused; instead, he and his household guard were killed in a fight with the Kingsguard and goldcloaks and Lannister men.”

“Ned Stark?” gasped Gilwood Hunter, who had known Ned while he was fostered in the Vale; men were now shouting, “Ned Stark a traitor?”

Stannis ground his teeth, and Rolland could have sworn that he muttered _Ned_. Robert’s preference for Ned Stark over his brother was a constant sore spot for the Lord of Dragonstone. “Joffrey has summoned all of us to pay fealty to him in King’s Landing.” He sat down. “I will not go, and neither will you.”

The shouting died down, replaced by a dead silence. “That is treason,” Lord Velaryon muttered, and Rolland could see many of the others nodding. “Joffrey is Robert’s heir, and the rightful king.”

But then Ser Vardis rose to his feet and walked to the head table. “Your grace,” he said, drawing his sword and laying it at Stannis’ feet as he knelt in homage.

There was more murmuring. _The others must think this treason¸_ Rolland reflected. _Perhaps it is_. One or two in the back of the hall actually did shout “Treason!” Davos was whispering something to Cressen, and Richard Horpe was trying to keep a Valeman and a Dragonstone man from coming to blows. Gilwood Hunter was the last to catch on. “You’re calling Lord Stannis king?” he sputtered, coughing up his wine.

“Robert has no trueborn heirs. Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are not his children, but those of Cersei and her brother Ser Jaime, the Kingslayer. By all the laws of Westeros, I am Robert’s heir, and king.”

Lyn Corbray rose to his feet. “You go too far, Lord Stannis! First you claim that Lord Robert was given into your care. Very well, we accepted that. But now to try to usurp your nephew’s throne with this preposterous claim? What lie will you feed us next?”

“They are no lies!” Ser Vardis was on his feet now. “You all have wondered why Lord Jon died so suddenly. I can tell you now. With Lord Stannis, he was investigating the matter of the royal children’s parentage. Every Baratheon within memory has had black hair and blue eyes, even the children of previous marriages to Lannisters. But not Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella. Robert has had other…children. We visited many of them in King’s Landing, all black haired and blue eyed, even those born to blonde mothers. My fellow Valemen! You have all visited the Eyrie, and met the mule girl Mya. She was Robert’s first child. Can any of you doubt the resemblance to Robert? Ser Robar! You have travelled to Storm’s End. You doubtless met another of Robert’s bastards there, Edric Storm. Yet none of Cersei’s children look at all like Robert. And who else has been close to her all this time, with the looks to ensure that the children look entirely Lannister, but her brother in the Kingsguard? It was for this truth that our Lord Jon doubtless died, murdered by the Lannisters to hide their foul secret.”

“So Lord Jon died, and instead of telling your brother or the Lords of the Vale, you chose to flee here and sulk,” Lyn Corbray scoffed. “Did you want a crown or a cradle, Lord Stannis?”

“And would you have believed me? Robert would have laughed and called it self-serving lies. So would you. I recall you saying something to that effect about Lord Jon entrusting young Robert to me, Ser Lyn.”

“Yes. Why should we believe you now?”

“Ned Stark,” Maester Cressen spoke up, quietly at first, then more loudly as his voice found its old strength. “We all know Ned Stark to be as honorable a man as there is in the Seven Kingdoms, and yet he refused to swear to Joffrey. What cause could there be, but that Joffrey is not the rightful heir? And if neither Joffrey nor his siblings are the rightful heir, then the crown is Lord Stannis’.”

“The Lannisters killed Lord Stark to hide the truth of Joffrey’s parentage, just as they did Lord Arryn,” Stannis declared.

There was more murmuring, but now instead of ‘treason,’ there were whispers of ‘Ned’ and ‘Jon’ and ‘Lannisters.’ “I speak for myself, not my father, but I’ll have you as my king,” Robar Royce declared, drawing his sword and kneeling. “We’ll have justice for Lord Stark and your father,” he added, turning to Sweetrobin, who looked thoroughly confused by the whole matter.

“The Lannisters are burning the Riverlands, and I suppose we’ll be next. Better you than the Lannisters,” Gilwood Hunter said, kneeling as well.

“Stannis king!” Richard Horpe shouted. One by one Mychel Redfort and Ben Coldwater and all the other Valemen were kneeling, Lyn Corbray last of all. Lord Velaryon knelt as well, and the worshippers of R’hllor, who had entered late and very flustered. “You’re a princess now,” Davos was saying to Shireen. But only the Dragonstone men and a few of the Valemen echoed Richard Horpe. _They will follow him, but do not love him_ , Rolland reflected as he knelt. Some of the others were shouting “Justice!” and “Jon Arryn!” and “Ned Stark!” _Perhaps when they have all fought and suffered with Lord – no, King – Stannis, they will understand_ , Rolland thought. “Stannis king!” he cried.

Stannis stood, still scowling. “I accept your fealty. Maester Cressen, Ser Davos, Ser Vardis, attend me in private.” And with that their new king stalked out the room.


	8. Robert Arryn

 

* * *

  **ROBERT ARRYN**

* * *

 

_In which a falcon takes wing and old memories are aroused_

 

Salladhor Saan scowled down at him. “Davos promises me war and loot, and now I am fetching gowns from Lys.” Saan laid a dress out on the cabin table. It was made of green silk, but mostly covered with an intricate weave of silver embroidery that indeed resembled seaweed. “King Stannis will be paying for this, no doubt. A pretty penny, in addition to what he already owes me.” A smile crinkled across the pirate’s face. “Now that the royal treasury in King’s Landing will be his, if he would only take old Saan’s advice.”

Robert didn’t know what to say. Whenever he had wanted something in King’s Landing or the Eyrie, he would only have to say so, and it would be done. “I suppose so. I want another sweetmeat.”

“Where would you like one from?” the good pirate asked, sweeping out a box from under the table. “I have ones from Braavos, and Lys and Myr, and the Summer Isles…”

”They all taste the same.” He took one anyways.

The good pirate ate a sweetmeat as well. “I’ll have one of my men take the dress to your room. You’ll remember old Saan when you have need of good ships, no?”

“I will.” He tried to look grumpy as Stannis would when making promises.

This all had started a few weeks before, when he and Shireen and Cressen had been listening to one of Patchface’s songs. “It is always summer under the sea,” the fool had intoned. “The merwives wear nennymoans in their hair and weave gowns of silver seaweed. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”

“I would like a gown of silver seaweed,” Shireen had exclaimed.

“I wish that were possible, child,” the leaning maester had said. “But when seaweed dries, it cannot be used for anything, though some say that in Yi Ti it is eaten…”

“It can be done,” Robert had interrupted. ”The song says it can be done.” He had gone to everybody after that, asking if they had ever seen a gown of silver seaweed. All but the grumpy stag and scarred knight, that is. The scarred knight would have made him run around the castle before answering, and the grumpy stag had always been busy the few weeks, with different knights and lords following him and saying the same places over and over. Harlan Hunter would say Maidenpool, and Monford Velaryon would say King’s Landing; Vardis Egen said Gulltown, and Axell Florent said Storm’s End. And the grumpy stag kept scowling at it all.

But when Robert went to Ser Davos, Davos had told him, with a twinkle in his eye, to ask Salladhor Saan. And Saan had indeed found such a gown for him. “Come and see!” Robert exclaimed when he had found Ser Davos again – at the docks, he was always at the docks now –  and made the smuggler follow him to his room. “There are gowns of silver seaweed. I said so!”

“Are there indeed?” Davos exclaimed. “I have to see this to believe my eyes. What are you planning to do with it once you’ve shown it to Maester Cressen?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you give it to the Princess Shireen?” Davos suggested with a smile, before leaving to talk with Salladhor Saan.

Robert found Shireen with Devan Seaworth and Bryen Farring in the mews, watching his falcon in its cage. “Don’t frighten Artys!” he exclaimed.

Devan Seaworth scowled. The grumpy stag’s younger squire scowled at half the things Robert said to Shireen, though less often now. Robert wondered why. “Princess Shireen was feeding him.”

“You forgot to feed it,” Shireen said gently, handing over a bucket of meat chunks, “and I couldn’t find you. Artys was hungry.”

He took the bucket, a bit shamefaced. When he brought the falcon with the broken wing back from one of the long walks up and down the Dragonmont that the scarred knight made him take, Stannis had stared at the falcon as if it was a ghost, before gruffly telling him that he could keep it as long as he alone took care of it.

But the falcon had eaten barely anything at first. It took watching it, and finding out what hours it liked eating, and that it liked its meat in small chunks, before it started gaining strength and growing. It was strange for Robert – he’d never cared about what others beside his mother and himself wanted – but he was starting to like finding these things out about Artys, and watching it grow strong because of them.

Robert tossed a chunk of meat into the cage. “I’m going to ride it, like Artys Arryn when he flew to the top of the Giant’s Lance and killed the Griffin King,” he declared.

“It’s a tenth of your size,” Bryen Farring scoffed. The older squire muttered something else under his breath.

“I don’t care. He’s going to be strong, like m…” He started to say _me_ , but stopped. After all of Rolland’s and Syrio’s tasks, and not being able to finish them, he was starting to doubt.

He was very glad that he had insisted that there were gowns of silver seaweed, though, when he showed Shireen the dress. Shireen threw her arms around him and kissed him lightly on the cheek, like and yet very unlike how Mother would kiss him. _She liked that; perhaps I should do things like that more often_ , Robert thought.

He thought so again the next morning when the scarred knight told him he would not have to do his exercises, before Ser Rolland went on to tell him that King Stannis wanted to talk to him.

Stannis was in the Chamber of the Painted Table with two guards – he was always guarded now – staring north from his seat, where Dragonstone should have been on the map. “I have called the banners of the Vale on your behalf,” the new king said without any introduction. “Maester Cressen and Ser Davos and most of the Valemen urge me to sail to Gulltown, and I have decided to do so. I will – appeal to the Valelords there for their fealty.” He seemed to spit the word appeal. “You will accompany us there, to meet with your bannermen, though Shireen will stay here. You will be on your best behavior, of course – Lord Arryn.”

“I want to stay here,” Robert insisted. “I want to be with Shireen, and Artys.”

“Artys? There is no Artys on this island.”

“The falcon I’m taking care of. I don’t want to leave him – like I had to leave mother.”

Stannis turned to face him for the first time. There was something in his face that Robert didn’t understand, though he’d seen his father looking like that when talking about Elbert or Denys. “Do you miss the Lady Lysa?”

He held back a sniffle. The grumpy stag would get grumpier when he sniffled. “I do.” Stannis didn’t say anything, and then Robert couldn’t hold it back any more.

But the grumpy stag still didn’t say anything until he’d stopped sobbing. “We all lose those we…love,” Stannis said at last. “I saw my parents’ ship break up across the bay from Storm’s End. Cressen says that I chose to cling to duty after that. Perhaps he is right. The Lady Cassana…my mother used to say that if we are blinded by our tears for the setting sun, then we will not see that the stars have risen yet again. The stars are always there. Duty is eternal. Remember that, Lord Arryn, and perhaps you will be worthy of Shireen one day.”

“I’m not worthy of Shireen?” Robert demanded. He tried to remember what else Stannis had said. Maybe the leaning maester or Shireen would be able to explain what it all meant.

“No.”

Robert left the room still thinking.

He found Shireen at the docks. The docks were crowded, as Dragonstone bannermen embarked and provisions were loaded. The scent of tar was heavy in the air, as ships were coated for a last time, and the sound of hammers echoed off the rocky cliffs as carpenters finished repairs or rushed to launch new galleys. It all still made his head hurt, though not as badly as it once did.

Shireen was watching as a name was painted on one of the new galleys, a fine two-decker that Aurane Waters would command. “Father said I could name it,” she explained. “I chose Defiance, since Elenei was already taken.”

“Defiance?”

“Elenei defied the storm gods to protect Durran when he was building Storm’s End, using her own body to shield him from their wrath,” Shireen explained. “I want the ship to protect our men.” She looked sadly out over the harbor. Aurane Waters waved cockily as he boarded a longboat that would take him out to the _Defiance_. “Father and all those men are going out to war, and many might not come back.” A wave crashed over the wharf, and Shireen blinked. “Oh, I’m so sorry; I was selfish, buried in my own thoughts. You’re going to be going to Gulltown too.”

It was time for Robert to blink, and it wasn’t just from the sting of the salt water. Something felt _wrong_ about that statement, though he couldn’t say what. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “D…do…don’t worry about me.” He grabbed her hand and began pulling her back towards the castle. “Artys will take care of me. If there’s any trouble I’ll fly away on him!”

“You can’t expect to do that,” Shireen managed to laugh as they ran—since when had he been able to do that without his chest hurting?— towards the castle. “He’s not a tame falcon, after all.”

Artys was asleep in the mews. “Here,” Robert called, holding out a chunk of meat as he opened the door. “We’re going to fly, all the way across the waters to Gulltown…”

“Here, put this on in case.” Shireen was fastening a long, thick glove onto his arm. “I’m afraid we feed it too much…they’re more likely to fly away if you feed it too much, but I hate to see it hungry…”

But the falcon had taken advantage of the open door, and suddenly was swooping low along the floor, then out the door and into the open. “Artys! Come back! I command you!” Robert yelled, running after the bird and out into the sunlight.

Then, as he shielded his eyes from the harsh sunlight, he saw it take flight. It staggered once or twice as if unsure of its healed wing, and then it rose. The circles grew wider and wider as it rose, and then it was soaring off towards the Dragonmont. And Robert realized he wasn’t angry. It was as if the freedom that the falcon had was _his_. It was a strange feeling, to feel happy for something else, and so exhilarating. He’d never been so happy, Robert realized as Artys disappeared from sight.

It was free. _He_ was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to L'Etranger+13 for the idea of Robert finding a falcon. It also serves as a reminder for Stannis of Proudwing, and his own childhood.


	9. Rolland Storm

 

* * *

  **ROLLAND STORM**

* * *

 

_In which lords talk, septons pray, and knights drink_

 

His first thought of Gulltown was that it was a miniature version of King’s Landing. Foreign ships docking at the wharves, colorful merchants and tax collectors going to meet them, peddlers hawking their goods, city watchmen lounging about, underhanded and not so underhanded transactions happening under their noses, tenements crowded up against the waterfront, and a general veneer of prosperity and underlying sense of corruption – it was all the same.

His second thought was that, just like King’s Landing, it stank.

But unlike King’s Landing, no black stag floated over the ancient castle overlooking the city. Instead there was the burning tower of the Graftons, along with dozens of other banners – those of Royce and Waynwood, Redfort and Hunter, Corbray and Templeton, and two score of lesser houses. The Valelords had gathered.

_What would their decision be?_ Letters had been sent to them all, summoning them to Gulltown in the name of their Lord Robert Arryn to pledge fealty and swords to the rightful king. The Valelords had come, but for the most part in silence. Rolland had no doubt that ravens had been flying, carrying messages among amongst themselves, but to Dragonstone there was barely a word.

And he could not shake a vague sense of unease. They were surrounded – Gulltown watchmen escorting them up into the castle, Grafton men-at-arms standing by ballistae and catapults overlooking them, the entourages of the various Valelords surrounding them. Sure, Lord Celtigar and the fleet had orders to attack if something went wrong, but what could a few thousand marines and green levies do against the might of the Vale? Stannis was at the mercy of the Valelords, Rolland thought for the dozenth time. It was one thing to convince the second sons of the Vale at Dragonstone to bend the knee; those gathered here were wily men and women, who had fought in Robert’s Rebellion and played the game of thrones for years.

It was only when they all had consumed the bread and salt, invoking guest right, that Rolland allowed his guard to relax. However much of a weasel Grafton might be, the sacred right of guest right had not been violated in living memory. And then there was nothing to do but wait when Stannis closeted himself with the Valelords in Lord Grafton’s solar. Lords Velaryon and Sunglass, along with Stannis’ closest advisors in Sers Davos and Vardis, accompanied the king. But there was no room for Rolland. _What have I ever done, after all?_ he reflected in a moment of self-doubt as he waited in the antechamber with the rest of Stannis’ retainers. _Acted as a nanny for a spoiled lordling, as Massey delights in reminding me?_

Justin Massey began spinning a tale of one of his experiences on Dragonstone, and Rolland decided that he’d rather be somewhere else. The Grafton guards made no move to stop him as he left, and he relaxed ever so slightly as he wandered about the castle. None would dare violate guest right, after all.

It was the smell that attracted him, the heavy scent of burning incense and candles, like nectar for a bee. His feet at last directed him into the castle sept, where Rolland blinked for a moment, dazzled by the light reflecting off the statues of the Seven. In his native Stormlands, the artists would usually carve their depictions from the abundant wood, or work with charcoal in the case of the poorer septs; in the Riverlands and Reach, earthlier plaster and clay were preferred, and in the Westerlands cast metals. But here stone was preferred, and with the trade that passed through Gulltown, the Graftons could afford the best. So the statues were made of white marble streaked with blue, with lapis lazuli eyes and robes of jasper. The Smith bore a chisel and hammer, just as artists in all the Seven Kingdoms sought to imbue their work with the spirit of their lands; Rolland had seen him carrying a woodman’s axe in some of the more remote Stormlands septs. The light flashed off the quartz scales of the Father and dolomite headdress of the Maiden.

But it was to the Warrior with its crystal sword that Rolland directed his feet, with only a glance at the rest. He would need strength for the coming battles – and he knew there would be battles, as Stannis would fight with or without the Valelords, however hopeless the odds might be – and the Warrior had always provided strength, ever since that fateful day when Rolland chose to defend that lonely sept. _What would I have become if I had run, like any sensible boy?_ Rolland reflected. He idly wondered for a moment what would be different in Westeros, before scoffing to himself. _Nothing, naught that a bastard could change_.

It was only the slightest of noises, but years of combat had taught Rolland to recognize the presence of another. Rolland turned quickly, only to see an old septon stepping out of one of the alcoves. “You went straight to the Warrior,” the old man commented as he wearily sat down before the altar of the Father.

“The Warrior has always given me strength. I…I suppose I owe a debt to him.”

“Yet the Seven are One. The Warrior is also the Father, watching over and judging his family, and the Mother with her own battles far harder than any we men shall face, and so forth, for all the Seven.”

“It is with the sword that I fight my battles.”

“Really? The battlefield is all that you yearn for? You have never thought of becoming a father, for example?”

Rolland paused, thinking of Sweetrobin. He had never known what it was like to _have_ a father himself – Lord Caron had denied him that by impregnating and abandoning his mother – and he had never thought about what it would be like to _be_ a father. But he could not deny that being forced to watch over the boy had awakened something in him, something that felt a deep surge of satisfaction at seeing Sweetrobin grow and mature. It was not simply a vicarious experience, but something _different_ , indescribable. “Perhaps.”

There was a companionable silence as the two men sat, one before the Father, the other before the Warrior. Finally, far in the distance, Rolland could hear the bells on the fleet sounding eight bells. It had been over an hour spent in the sept, he realized. “I should go. You will pray that the Seven will be with our armies, won’t you?”

The septon smiled sadly. “And for what purpose? Do you not think that Westerlanders are asking the same thing at this very moment? What makes you think the Seven will incline their ears more favorably to your supplications?”

“Stannis is the rightful king, not Joffrey.”

“Kings and kingdoms have risen and fallen and are forgotten. It is but a moment in eternity for the Seven.”

“Tywin Lannister’s men are pillaging their way across the Riverlands, burning septs and killing septons and septas.”

“And your armies will not pillage with one hand as you claim to liberate with the other? I know far too well this will not be the case.” The septon held up a hand as Rolland began to protest. “It is our choices every day that define us, and these that the Seven see. I shall pray that you make the right choices, and then the Seven shall judge.”

Rolland had one last question as he stood to leave. “You said that you knew all too well that our armies would pillage as well…”

The septon stood as well, and Rolland could now see that one of his legs was twisted and shorter than the other. “I was a knight once, before I set aside the sword,” he said with a wan smile. “A ballista bolt made my choices for me by crippling me. The Seven may act how you least expect it. Farewell, young knight.”

* * *

 

To Rolland’s bemusement, Stannis was still closeted with the Valelords. It was past midnight before he emerged, with a look on his face that would have curdled milk. “They haggle like crones with codfishes,” he grumbled when alone with his retainers. “Robert would have had them eating out of his hand in minutes. Yet with me, they quibble over every last title and lance. If they fight on the battlefield with half of the fervor they show at the council table, the war should be over already.”

“They’ve bent the knee – most of them, at least,” Davos explained. “They insisted on some conditions being met before they committed their full strength, though.”

_No wonder_ , Rolland thought, remembering Stannis’ fury. To the duty-bound Baratheon, anything but the utmost fulfillment of the feudal duties would be anathema. The demands seemed fairly reasonable, though. Shireen and Sweetrobin were to be betrothed, meaning that if they ever had a child, a future monarch would be half-Arryn. If they had a second child, the Vale would pass to him or her; in the meantime, Harry Hardyng would be confirmed as heir to the Vale. And remain in the care of the Waynwoods.

“They should have asked for him to be named Waynwood, not Arryn,” Stannis grumbled, clearly furious at the implication that Shireen would not be likely to have a second son. “They shall have neither.”

Sweetrobin would remain in the care of Stannis’ household. But with Stannis as King, direct control of the Vale would pass to a council of Lady Anya Waynwood, Lord Horton Redfort, Lord Eon Hunter, Lord Gerold Grafton, and Steward Nestor Royce. Lord Yohn Royce would be appointed Hand of the King. In return, the Valelords would finance Stannis’ army for the next half-year, or until the treasury in King’s Landing was taken. The Grafton fleet, along with the royal fleet, would transport most of the strength of the Vale – Royce, Waynwood, Redfort, Hunter, Grafton, Templeton, and the lesser houses from the east coast of the Vale – along with the Dragonstone levies by sea to Maidenpool in the Riverlands. From there they would march west to confront the Lannisters, who after annihilating Beric Dondarrion’s raiding party, shattering Edmure Tully’s force at the Golden Tooth, and investing Riverrun, were marching east towards Harrenhal.

“Lord Wants-A-Sword…”

“Lord Lyonel Corbray,” Davos translated for Stannis.

“And Lord Yes…”

“Lord Lynderly.”

“Refuse to call their men,” Stannis continued unabated. “I can wait, but I shall not forgive. Their time shall come, like all traitors.” Like the Widow Arryn holed up in the Eyrie, the two lords continued to insist that Stannis had abducted Robert Arryn and likewise claimed the throne under false pretenses.

Since the fleet could only carry so many men, the houses from the western end of the Vale of Arryn, mainly Waxley and Belmore along with Arryn, would take the slower and more dangerous journey by land, down from the Bloody Gate and through the Mountains of the Moon, to meet with the main force in the Riverlands. Brynden Tully, who had been raising men to ride to the aid of the Riverlands, would be offered command. Ser Vardis Egen, accompanied by Ser Robar Royce and Ser Andrew Estermont, would ride for Riverrun and slip through the Lannister lines to try to convince Hoster and Edmure Tully to bend the knee. Lord Celtigar would remain in command of the fleet, and Lord Velaryon and Ser Richard Horpe would ride with Stannis’ army. Ser Axell Florent would remain as castellan of Dragonstone with Ser Gilbert Farring as his second, and Lord Robert would return on the morrow to their protection.

“And I?” Rolland asked.

“You will accompany me and command the reserve, along with Ser Lyn Corbray.”

He’d expected to be reassigned from training Robert; Stannis was never one to let his men go to waste, after all. But… “Ser Lyn? You trust him?”

Stannis ground his teeth. “Unlike his brother, Ser Lyn has bent the knee. They say there is no love lost between those two; Lyonel is jealous of Lyn for being granted their family’s ancestral Valyrian blade. If Lyonel will not be loyal to me, then Lyn will want to prove that he is different.”

“Perhaps it’s the other way around,” Justin Massey suggested with a smile.

“If I have need of your council, Massey, I shall ask for it. Did you want his command?”

The smile disappeared from Massey’s face for just a moment. “If Your Grace wanted my talents there, I would have been delighted.”

 “I shall have need of your glib tongue elsewhere. You and Ser Davos will sail for the Stormlands. Lord Ralph Buckler and Lord Eldon Estermont are interested in bending the knee, but they are too cowed to do so without support. Their neighbors support Renly.” Stannis almost spat the name; word had come recently that his younger brother had crowned himself king in Highgarden, and that cut deep for Stannis. “You will endeavor to persuade the Stormlords to fight for me, or at least prevent them from joining Renly. If you should fail, join me in the Riverlands.” He tapped the map of the Riverlands on the table before them, tracing a path from Maidenpool to Harrenhal.

 

* * *

 

Brynden Tully arrived the next morning, having ridden through past couple days and nights from the Bloody Gate. But he refused to bend the knee, to Stannis’ anger. “I’ll acknowledge you as king when Hoster does.”

“Your quarrels with your brother are well-known. Do your duty and bend the knee.”

The Blackfish did not back down. “Our motto’s not just words. ‘Family, duty, honor,’ in that order – family first. That _mean_ things to us. I’ll fight for you, fight to rid the Riverlands of the Lannisters. But if you ever ask me to turn my sword on House Tully or the Riverlands, that’s the last command you’ll give me.”

To Rolland’s surprise, Stannis seemed impressed. Or so it would appear; he didn’t openly threaten to behead the Blackfish, at least. “I had to make that choice once,” he finally declared. “My family or my king. You know the price of defiance.” The two men nodded gruffly before the Blackfish stomped off to arrange for supplies.

Compared to the tension between Stannis and the Blackfish, Robert Arryn was a lesson in civility. The boy stood with a straight back while waiting on the docks, Rolland noted with a hint of pride. All in all, aside from a few inappropriate comments, the boy’s meeting with the Valelords had gone as well as could be expected; they were all quite impressed with the progress he had made.

Sweetrobin did not laugh or cry or start dancing a jig when Rolland told him that he’d be leaving with the army. “When I’m of age, I’ll make you captain of my guards,” Robert said at last.

Of all the things that Rolland might have expected the boy to say, this was not even on the list. “My lord?” he said, far more hesitantly than he was used to.

“That way, I can give _you_ orders,” the boy said, with just a hint of a smile. Without another word or a look back at Rolland, Robert wrapped his cloak tighter around him and stepped into the boat waiting to carry him back to his galley and then Dragonstone.

Rolland watched the boat disappear from sight with an inscrutable expression. “If only,” he muttered at last before turning away.

 


	10. Arya Stark

 

* * *

  **ARYA STARK**

* * *

 

_In which power is sought and the Mockingbird takes flight_

 

She was a caged wolf.

At least her captors didn’t try to hide that it was a cage. There was a comfortable bed and sheets and a latrine, but guards with crossed halberds waited outside the door, and iron bars ran across the door and window. Her food was already cut when serving girls brought it to her; they wouldn’t allow a knife within her reach. The servants never spoke to her, no matter how much she cajoled them. And the walls of the room were the only place she ever saw, at least when awake. Arya had thought she liked the shadows. But now as she paced back and forth, day after day, she longed to feel the sun on her face and earth between her toes. Instead, from her tower, all she could see was the Red Keep and cold, cold stone.

She’d tried climbing out the chimney. She had made it about halfway up, clinging to the edges of the stones made slippery by soot till her hands were numb, when she had disturbed some bats and fallen. And then the guards had nailed up the chimney.

Arya had raged, but deep down she knew she’d never have been able to make it; no matter how hard she wished, she did not have wings. It was Bran who’d been the climber. She was Arya Underfoot, who slipped unseen around Winterfell and among the servants. And even Bran had fallen. She wondered if the Lannisters were even now trying to kill Bran, too, like all the others. Arya whispered the names. Names that had faces. Faces she’d never see again. Mycah, ridden down by the Hound. Jory, Heward, Wyl, killed by the Kingslayer and his men. Fat Tom. Desmond. Hullen, who’d named her Underfoot. All butchered by the Lannisters. She even missed Septa Mordane. The names became a mantra as she paced in her gilded cage. Mycah, Jory, Heward, Wyl, Fat Tom, Desmond, Hullen, Septa Mordane. _Her father._

She’d been in her rooms, brooding over the loss of Jory and wondering where Sansa had run off to, when the Lannisters came. Desmond had sacrificed himself to try to hold them off. For a moment as she ran along the corridors, Arya had thought she might be able to escape. But after a while she had nowhere to run, and Meryn Trant had caught her in a corridor and snapped Needle over his knee. The Kingsguard had dragged her to her new room, past the ruins of the Stark household, past the bodies of Desmond and Septa Mordane and Hullen, and locked her in her cage. She’d been there ever since.

It was days before they told her the dreadful news that her father was dead. They said that the moment King Robert was dead, Lord Eddard had attacked Joffrey in the throne room and tried to take the throne for himself. That the brave goldcloak Allar Deem had saved the king by killing the traitor, before taking a knife in the confusion. That Joffrey had her father’s head cut off and that it now decorated the walls of the Red Keep. That King Joffrey had meted out justice to the rest of the treacherous Hand’s household.

Arya hoped Deem was rotting in whichever of the Seven Hells he was in. Her father was no traitor, and Joffrey and all the others were liars. When Robb and his men came to avenge their father, it would be Joffrey’s head on a pike. She wondered if he’d squeal like he had when Nymeria bit him.

But until then, he had the power, and she had none. It was just like Darry; he’d been the crown prince then, and it had been his word that counted. She was only dirty, ragged Arya Underfoot, and so Mycah had died and she’d had to drive away Nymeria. Now Joffrey was king, his word was law, and she was a prisoner with no idea of what was happening. She didn’t even have Needle. She hated how powerless it all made her felt.

There was a creaking as the door was unbolted. They’d knocked at first, but she refused to answer, so now they just entered. It was not a servant, she knew, as the heard the heavy footfalls behind her. “Lady Arya,” a cold, expressionless voice said. It was Ser Mandon Moore, the one she’d heard servants titter had eyes that looked like a dead fish’s. “The king requires your presence.”

“I shan’t go.”

Mandon Moore did not say a word; he only nodded, and two Lannister guardsmen stepped forwards and grabbed her arms. She had no choice but to go with Moore as the guardsmen frogmarched her to the throne room. _If only I had that power,_ Arya thought angrily.

The throne room was nearly empty. Joffrey lounged on the throne, the kingsguard arrayed in front of him. One of them was the Hound, Arya noticed with surprise. But it was the other person standing in front of the throne that drew Arya’s attention. Sansa, who she hadn’t seen since before that terrible day.

“Arya!” her sister exclaimed, rushing over and embracing her. “Oh, it was horrible, I didn’t think this was going to happen, did you see what happened to father, I was so stupid…”

“What did you do?” Arya asked, but Sansa turned her tear-stained face away. At a signal from Joffrey, Mandon Moore stepped in between them, and once again Arya could see no friendly faces.

Joffrey leered at her. “Your traitor father is dead. Did you know he screamed when he died?”

“Liar!” she shouted. She tried to lunge at the throne, but Ser Mandon gripped her arm and she could do no more than struggle helplessly as Joffrey laughed down at her.

“I should make you scream, too. Maybe I’ll have your arm cut off for striking me. Or I could have your arm sliced to give you a scar too. If you were a commoner it would have been done. But mother says I have to leave unmaimed so you can be used to make your brother submit. I’ll make him kneel like a beat dog.”

“Robb won’t bow to you! He’ll have your head cut off like you did to father!” _And I’ll laugh while they do it._

Joffrey sneered. “You shouldn’t be insolent like that to your king. Ser Mandon, strike her.”

And then there was a heavy mailed glove in her stomach, and Arya doubled over, pain shooting through her. She wanted to wretch. But she wasn’t going to give Joffrey that satisfaction. She wouldn’t scream. Pushing herself to her feet, she spat in Joffrey’s direction. And at a signal from Joffrey, Ser Mandon struck her again.

“Please,” Arya heard Sansa whimper. Her sister was pale-faced and now looking at Joffrey with a face full of loathing. “Don’t hurt her.”

Joffrey paused, trying to look deep in thought. “Ser Meryn,” he ordered at last, “Whenever Arya is insolent, strike Lady Sansa till she learns.”

“You bastard!” Arya shouted, but then Ser Mandon had backhanded her across the face, and she heard a moan of pain as Meryn Trant struck Sansa.

“Again,” Joffrey ordered, and Ser Mandon struck her again, a little higher this time. She fell to the floor, gasping for breath. “I want to hear you scream.”

 _Never,_ she gasped to herself, but then Ser Boros was hauling her to her feet and struck her again. And Joffrey nodded to Ser Meryn, and the knight struck Sansa again.

“Scream!” Joffrey shouted, leaning forwards on his throne. “I want you to scream when struck. Ser Meryn, I want you not to stop until the wolf bitch has learned her lesson.” And Arya could do nothing but struggle in Ser Mandon’s arms as Ser Meryn struck Sansa again and again, in the face, in the stomach, in the solar plexus.

“Arya, please,” Sansa whispered when Ser Meryn was done. “Do as he says.”

Arya heard this as the blows continued to fall and turned to see her sister’s tear-filled face. She’d hated Sansa, ever since her sister had lied at Darry about Joffrey and Mycah and Nymeria. Sansa, who’d always simpered up to Septa Mordane while Arya got into trouble. Sansa, who’d always laughed at her horse-faced sister. Maybe once Arya would have laughed if Sansa had gotten into trouble because of her. But now neither was laughing. There was only the tears left, and the heavy blows of mailed fists. _We are a pack,_ Arya whispered to herself. She couldn’t hate Sansa anymore, not when Joffrey was learing down at them, not when Ser Mandon and Ser Meryn and the rest of the kingsguard were expressionlessly striking them. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. We are family._

She screamed.

She dreaded the evenings from then on. Every evening, Joffrey would have Arya and Sansa brought before him and beaten. And if she didn’t scream or spoke back to him in any way, he’d have Sansa beaten. It ate Arya up, till her mind was blank. And she wasn’t even allowed to talk to Sansa; if she tried, they’d both be beaten. They could only watch as each suffered for the other.

The nights were almost worse. The faces of Jory and Desmond and all the others began to fade, replaced by vicious images of Joffrey and Cersei and Ser Mandon and Ser Meryn. To her horror, it even began to be hard to recollect the faces of Robb and Bran, and Jon Snow, and even her father. Joffrey’s smug, leering face overshadowed all. She wanted just a glimpse of them, to remind herself that there was a world beyond the cold walls of her cell and the throne room. To remind herself that she was a Stark; so that she could believe that the torture would end. There was a war going on, she knew. One day Robb would come, and it would be over.

The days dragged into weeks – she had lost track of exactly how many – when things finally changed. There’s been shouting during the afternoon, and fires rising from the city. Arya had a flutter of something like hope. Could the people have risen against Joffrey?

But when Ser Arys brought her to the throne room that day, Joffrey was still there, as was Cersei. The queen would sometimes watch, no friendliness in her green eyes. Sansa was not there.

“Kneel,” Joffrey ordered, and then Ser Boros – where was Ser Mandon? – forced her to her knees and kicked her from behind. They’d never hit her there before, and Arya knew, looking up, that Joffrey was angry.

But then a gold cloak came bursting into the room. “Your grace!” he gasped. “Lord Baelish has vanished! And the treasury is gone!”

“My treasury? Where is my treasury?” Joffrey screamed, purple in the face.

“It’s gone, every last dragon.”

“Be quiet, fool,” Cersei hissed at the messenger. Arya had never seen the queen so angry. “Ser Arys, escort Lady Arya back to her rooms.”

“What happened?” Arya asked Ser Arys as he escorted her back to her cage. Ser Arys would try to talk to her sometimes, and apologize after hitting her. She found it pathetic, but right now Arya was desperate for news. Lord Baelish had said he was a friend of her mother; maybe he’d joined Robb?

“The Vale has joined Lord Stannis in his rebellion. Queen Cersei ordered all the Valemen in the city arrested.” Ser Arys looked worried, and Arya remembered that he was from the Reach. Maybe the Reach was joining Stannis too? Arya remembered that Robert had two brothers, neither of which had been seen in the city since before that dreadful day. And Loras Tyrell had been a boon companion of Lord Renly. And if the king’s brothers were rebelling…she felt a surge of hope. Stannis, and Renly, and the Vale and Reach, and Robb. They would come for Sansa and her. “Gulltown merchants, and Lord Baelish, and Ser…” The kingsguard cut himself off. “My apologies, I should not have said anything.” And Ser Arys would not speak another word, no matter how hard she cajoled.

The next day they beat her again, and the day after that. But Sansa was not in the room. “Where is my sister?” Arya demanded. But she got no answer. Sansa was gone.

 


	11. Rolland Storm

 

* * *

  **ROLLAND STORM**

* * *

 

_In which there can be no retreat_

 

“Riders back from the vanguard, Your Grace,” Devan Seaworth reported, lowering the Myrish lens with which the squire had been studying the rolling hills to the west. “In some haste.”

The king ground his teeth. Ever since word had come of the fall of Harrenhal to the Lannisters without a fight, Rolland had not seen a smile flicker on Stannis’ lips. After landing at Maidenpool and accepting Lord Mooton’s surrender, Stannis’ army had marched west towards Harrenhal. They had counted on being able to rest the army within the ancient castle’s great walls, safe from any assault; but the Lannisters had beaten them there. Instead they had to change their course, away from Harrenhal, northwest in a forced march towards Darry, in the hope of linking up with Brynden Tully there. The Blackfish was bringing a second army south from the Bloody Gate; last they had heard from him, this army was approaching the crossroads where the High Road from the Vale met the Kingsroad, north of the Trident and Darry.

At the head of the horsemen who came riding up, steads lathered in sweat, was a weedy young knight with a moth-eaten surcoat bearing black and grey piles. “Ser Andrew Tollett, Your Grace,” he reported to Stannis. “Commander of Lord Redfort’s outriders.” Lord Redfort’s left wing had taken the van for that day’s march. “The Lannister army is to the southwest of us, closing fast. We encountered some of their outriders, but when we pursued we ran into what must be Tywin Lannister’s main army. Thousands of them, maybe twenty or more.”

“And then?” Ser Lyn asked. Stannis had appointed the Vale knight as second in command of the reserve, beneath Rolland.

“I thought it best to return and warn Lord Redfort. He’s deploying his men now to face them.”

“Can he disengage?”

“No, the Lannisters will be upon him by now. He insisted on fighting where he is.”

Stannis looked angry – the previous night’s camp had been set in an excellent defensive position behind a series of bluffs, and their army would instead be arriving piecemeal at an unknown battlefield – but did not hesitate. “Riders! Send word to Lords Royce and Velaryon to bring their men up to support Lord Redfort as quickly as possible.” Men-at-arms rode off to the commanders of the right and center wings, respectively; the former was just breaking camp, while the latter was on the march past them.

“You did well, Ser Andrew,” Rolland said. Stannis would have appreciated the knight coming back with the warning rather than charging the Lannister army, though the king would likely never tell him so.

The Tollett knight shrugged dispassionately. “Enough men will die today; didn’t think the Stranger needed more company.”

More riders were riding all around them now, bearing the messages that would move this mass of fifteen thousand men spread out over five miles. Stannis turned to Rolland and Ser Lyn, glancing over their three hundred mounted men that made up the army’s reserve. “Go forwards and do what you can to help Lord Redfort until the rest of the army arrives. Ser Andrew! Take a fresh horse and ride north to find Ser Brynden. Tell him to bring his army to Lord Redfort’s position with all possible speed. I had not meant to fight there, but the battle has found us. Tell Tully that he will find us there, dead or alive.”

The reserve found Lord Redfort standing atop a knoll, directing troops with his drawn sword, headless of the arrows plunging down in front of him. Rolland had to admit that the Valelord had picked a decent position. The Redfort, Waynwood, and Templeton infantry were drawn up in serried ranks a bit back from the near side of a stream. While the rushing water was not deep enough to stop the Westermen, it seemed sufficient to break up the ranks of the red-cloaked men and horses pushing their way across. Vale archers were in front, loosing a rain of arrows into the approaching enemy before retiring into the gaps in the line.

But across the stream, long ranks of the enemy stretched as far as could be seen; the might of the West was arrayed against them. Merry pennons and cloaks of a dozen colors, dyed by woad and lichen and saffron and indigo, bellied their grim chain hauberks and iron helms; the ground shook from their unrepentant footfalls. Rank after rank of Lannister levies; dismounted Lydden and Lefford and Serrett men-at-arms; the foot of a dozen lesser houses. Beyond them was an armored fist – thousands of knights gathered around a massive lion banner that must mark Lord Tywin’s position. And already Lord Tywin’s fingers were probing.

To the Lannister right, cavalry under the Marbrand banner was stretching further and further towards the southeast; the Vale cavalry in Lord Redfort’s wing was across the stream from the enemy, cautiously spreading out as well. There was danger there, Rolland could see; if the line was stretched too far, the Lannister reserve might be able to punch through and flank Lord Redfort.

But behind Rolland, Velaryon men were beginning to arrive; that side was the closest to the rest of Stannis’ army, and within an hour all of Lord Velaryon’s wing – levies from Dragonstone and the Narrow Sea islands, stiffened by Lord Hunter’s men because of the islanders’ lack of cavalry – would be there. The Vale cavalry would have to hold, for the nonce.

It was on their right that the clearest danger lay. There, a couple rolling hills on their side of the stream overlooked the battlefield.  A couple hundred Vale archers and pikemen held them; from there, they could fire upon the Lannister flank. But if the Westermen took the hills, Lord Redfort’s entire line would be enfiladed. The enemy had realized this, and several hundred of their infantry were starting to push across the stream there and up the base of the hills. “To the hills!” he shouted, putting a spur to his horse. There was a ragged cheer from the Vale infantry as they rode behind them, and Lord Redfort – looking far too cheerful – raised his visor in salute.

“Hot work here!” the Melcolm captain commanding the archers declared as they reached the crest of the near hill. “Draws out serenaders. Mind ridding us of them?” Lines of soaked Westermen were halfway up the hillside; Rolland had to admit that they were impeccably disciplined and prepared. They had mantlets in front, and archers behind them were sending arrows up at the Vale archers to keep them pinned down.

“I never did like sweet songs,” he said, thinking of nightingales and Lord Caron. “Men!” Rolland shouted to the two hundred knights behind him. “These hills must be held till the rest of the army arrives! We will break those Westermen, and then reform and fall back! Do not chase them into the river, or we will have lost! Charge, for Westeros and King Stannis!”

“Stannis! Stannis! Stannis!” the men roared, along with some shouts of “Robert!” and “Ned!” and “Arryn!” and “Tully!” And then they were charging down the hills, the ground falling away beneath the hooves of their steeds. His horse stumbled a few times on the rough ground of the incline, tossing him forwards, but he barely felt it. The lust of battle was upon him. They met the enemy in a cacophony of sounds, few of them sweet. He parried a passing blow from a Jast knight; swiped down at a spearman; rode down a couple others. There was no time to see what the effect was; momentum here was everything, so that they could break the enemy before they could close ranks. A young Sarsfield knight made the mistake of riding at him with his sword held out straight in front of his extended arm. _Dramatic, but foolish,_ Rolland thought as he brought his own sword down in a vicious cut that knocked the sword out of his opponent’s weak grip, before slicing upwards. He tried not to remember the look of horror on the young knight’s face; if he dwelled on it every time, he would long before have gone mad.

He had nearly reached the stream now, and his horse was starting to lose footing in the wet ground just trampled on by hundreds of men and horses. “Halt!” he roared to the men cutting their way down to him, and a trumpeter sounded the retreat. “Back to the top!” The Lannister lines had been broken, the survivors struggling to make their way back to the stream, but more and more were pushing their way to join the fray. Lannister arrows were starting to fall on them, headless of the Westermen still on that side of river. He noticed a couple of his men trying to prod prisoners along. “Leave them!” he shouted. “Dead men spend no ransoms!” The ransoms for enemy knights and lords might have made a few knights rich, but staying here would cost them dearly. Their advantage was the hills, and being able to use that height to crash into the enemy; here, down below, they were only a man seated on a horse. He did not pause to look at what was done to the captives.

Two times they fell back to the top of the hills, and two more times they charged and scattered the Westermen before them. But the third time, Rolland soon realized that there was too many of the Westermen across the river now; his knights were too few to break them. “Back!” he shouted to Ser Lyn. The hearts on the Corbray knight’s surcoat seemed to be bleeding, with all the blood splattered on them. Lady Forlorn rose and fell in a circle of death around Ser Lyn. “Back now, while we can!”

“Lady Forlorn is still hungry,” Ser Lyn declared, but he obeyed. Some others did not, the lust of battle having completely overtaken them and driven the orders from their heads, and Rolland saw them cut down. It was a much smaller force that regained the top of the hill; half their number lay on the reddening slopes beneath. Many of those who remained were wounded, and their mounts were exhausted. They had held the enemy off the hills for an hour, but their bolt was shot.

To their relief, though, most of Stannis’ army was finally now on the field or within sight. Lord Royce was riding towards them now, knights and spearmen and archers in his wake. “Well done,” the Valelord said gruffly, looking over their diminished ranks. “My men can hold these hills now. All the Grafton infantry, stiffened by my own knights and the Ruthermonts. King Stannis wants you to take up position as reserve behind Lords Redfort and Velaryon.” Yohn Royce took another look down the hill, at the carnage on the slopes and the hundreds of angry Westermen boiling up from the stream. “Well done.”

It did not feel like a victory when they returned behind their lines, though. Rank after rank of Westermen was forcing their way across the stream, and in a dozen places all along the line they had gained the near bank and could not be displaced. There were no clear wings anymore. As they arrived, Lord Velaryon’s and Lord Royce’s divisions had been forced to plug one gap or flank after another, though Velaryon’s seahorse was on the left now and Royce’s runes on the right. The battle had dissolved into a hundred different battles, with another starting as soon as one ended. Stannis’ men held, for now, but Rolland could see it was only a matter of time before a gap opened that could not be plugged. Once that happened, the waves currently breaking on Vale and Narrow Sea pikes and swords would rush through.

Lannister archers had set up safely behind mantlets on the far bank, and a hail of arrows added to the misery of Stannis’ men. Ballistae bolts and stones from catapults were starting to fall among them as well, as the Lannister siege train had arrived. In the distance Rolland saw a group of Waynwood cavalry pushing across the stream to try to cut down some of the enemy archers, before being scattered by a countercharge. Lord Redfort fell, an arrow through his open visor striking the brave old fool down after he opened it to shout an order. Rolland could not bring himself to feel pity for him; by deciding to immediately engage, he had allowed the Lannisters to bruise each part of Stannis’ army as it arrived at the field.

“Where do we go?” one of his riders exclaimed – a son of Lord Mooton, Rolland thought. “We’re needed everywhere!”

“You will hold here.” Stannis had ridden up, Richard Horpe and the two squires beside him, a dozen messengers coming and going with additional orders. The king pointed across the river, at the mass of Lannister cavalry that remained waiting by Lord Tywin’s banner. “Once Lord Tywin senses a crack in our lines, he will throw his reserves into that. I need you disengaged and ready for that time.”

“They’ll outnumber us four to one,” Rolland pointed out.

“We need the Blackfish to save us,” the Mooton declared.

Stannis ground his teeth. “Night or the Blackfish could save us. But they are not here. We save ourselves.”

The next two hours were the hardest Rolland had ever spent – waiting, doing nothing, as he could see men dying all around and wave after wave of Westermen crashing into Stannis’ lines. It was almost a relief when there was a commotion from left of the center. The Celtigar men had finally broken, followed by the Sunglass men and a Hunter battalion. Like a scavenger drawn to a dying animal, the Lannister lines all began shifting towards the hole left by the fleeing men. And with the blaring of trumpets, the Lannister reserve charged.

“Now’s our time!” Lyn Corbray declared, drawing Lady Forlorn and licking his lips. “Into the gap, men!”

“Not so.” Rolland and Lyn both looked in astonishment at the king. “Take your men around our left and attack their right flank. Bryen! Ride to Lord Royce and tell him to charge down those hills to strike their left. Every man left standing, every battalion. _Now_.”

 _This is mad,_ Rolland thought. Stannis was going to try to double envelop a numerically superior enemy. Rolland had faith in Stannis, but he wondered if this was a plan born of desperation. There was nothing to do but obey, though, and salute. Stannis did not respond; sword drawn, the king was trying to rally the fleeing remains of the left-center. “Stand and fight! Stand and fight! Stand with your king!”

 _How can a man stand against the ocean?_ Rolland thought, as he glanced at the approaching masses of Lannister knights. “Ride! Ride hard!”

Yet for a moment after the reserve hit the Lannister flank, Rolland thought it might have been a brilliant plan. The Westermen had smelt victory within their grasp, and their focus has been on the widening gap in front of them. As Rolland’s men came riding out of the afternoon sun and smashed into their flank, they were caught by surprise. Their attack wavered and came to a halt, as a moment of doubt passed through the Lannister lines. Rolland and his men rode along the side of the stream, scattering the Westermen before them.

Across the battlefield, angry Valemen that had been pinned down atop the hills came pouring down the bloody slopes. The Lannister lines facing them there finally broke. Some of the enemy fled back across the stream, while most were pushed into the increasingly disorganized Lannister center. And with a hoarse cheer, what remained of Lord Redfort and Lord Velaryon’s wings pushed forwards into the stunned Lannisters, following the king’s banner.

But Stannis’ men were too few and the Westermen too many. Their charge had gone into the Westermen like a knife into butter, and now the butter was congealing. In one place after another, the Westermen were rallying and blunting Stannis’ attacks. Lannister cavalry started to circle around them, and spearmen were all around. Rolland saw the Mooton being pulled from his horse and the fall of Lannister blades, a moment before feeling a sharp pang in his own left arm. He swung around and brought his sword down on the helm of the enemy spearman. But this did not leave him enough time to dodge as a huge Crakehall knight came riding by, mace crashing down on Rolland’s hastily raised shield. His arm, already injured, could not stand the impact; with a sickening crunch, his arm was driven back into his torso. With a glance at the way the bones stuck out at odd angles, Rolland knew that he would never again be able to use the remains of the shield hanging on by a single unsnapped leather strap – or the arm, for that matter. _It could have been a leg,_ he thought for some mad reason.

The Crakehall knight was not done, though. He had brought his horse to a halt and was turning around, preparing to finish Rolland off or force him to yield. There was only one thing to do. Rolland spurred his nearly-winded horse. His opponent was caught by surprise in the act of dropping his mace and drawing his sword. With what strength Rolland could muster, he brought his sword down on the Crakehall’s sword arm, and then up under his armpit. The giant knight sat still for a moment and then toppled, his stead dragging him along by the foot for a moment before the stirrup snapped and he lay still in the mud.

Rolland ripped off what was left of his surcoat and wrapped it around his left arm, hoping to slow down the bleeding. “Ser Lyn!” he shouted, looking for the Vale knight to relinquish command; he did not know how much longer he would be able to remain in the saddle. He was puzzled for a moment when he saw Ser Lyn riding back towards their own lines, Lady Forlorn flashing in a whirlstorm of death, before he saw what the Vale knight had. The king’s banner was surrounded, a few dozen knights and spearmen facing charge after charge of Lannister knights.

“Back to the king!” Rolland shouted. There were pitifully few of his men left, and they were scattered now. It was with great difficulty that he was able to gather three dozen riders, and with even greater difficulty that they were able to fight their way back to the king. They collected Ser Lyn along the way. The Vale knight looked rather sulky. “I could have done it on my own,” Ser Lyn grumbled.

When they finally reached the royal banner and scattered the Lannister attackers for the moment, they found Stannis still alive. So were Ser Richard Horpe and Devan Seaworth. But far too many other good men – Gerald Gower, Jate and Omer Blackberry, even the squire Bryen Farring – lay dead or wounded around them, among the dozens of Westermen. “We must retreat,” Ser Richard entreated. “This field is lost. Live and fight another day!”

“Ser Rolland?” the king asked, turning to him. _Why are you here_ , was the unspoken demand in the king’s blood splattered face. “You are wounded.”

“There’s too many,” Rolland admitted, as much as it pained him to do so. _Failure_. It was easy to believe in the king, in his cause, when he’d never led them to defeat. But like his arm, that had been shattered. “We failed, your grace. Ser Richard is right; the day is lost. Retreat while we can, while the Lannisters’ attack has been halted.”

The king looked dispassionately over the battlefield. “If we try to retreat now, I will have no army; Tywin Lannister will pursue and ride down every last man. Devan! How does Lord Royce fare?”

The squire fixed his Myrish glass – still unbroken, somehow – on the hills to the northwest. “Lord Royce still has his men in good order, your grace. They’re falling back on the hills.”

“We shall move to his position and reform if possible.” The king glanced at Rolland’s arm. “Ser Lyn, take the rearguard and hold off the Lannisters for as long as possible so that at least some of Lord Velaryon and Lord Redfort’s men can…fall back.” Even saying that seemed to cost the king. “Ser Rolland! Alert the commanders.”

He knew that there was some empathy in taking command of the rearguard away from him, as well as cold pragmatism, but it still hurt for Rolland. His life had been the sword, and that was being taken away from him. But there was still his duty to be fulfilled. “Isn’t Lord Redfort dead?” he asked Richard.

“Mychel Redfort. He’s Lord Redfort now….”

Rolland swore silently. That would mean not only old Lord Horton, but his two elder sons were dead or missing. A scythe had passed through the nobility of Westeros that day.

But then there was a shout from Devan Seaworth, still peering through the Myrish glass. “Your grace! There’s an army! On the hills beyond Lord Royce, to the northwest!”

“The Blackfish?” A tremor of whispered hope seemed to pass through the survivors.

“No, there’s no Arryn or Tully banners. I…I don’t recognize the sigils, your grace.” The young squire looked positively embarrassed at this.

Rolland grabbed the glass with his one good arm. An army indeed coming over the hills in the distance, a solid wall of shields and spears. Above them floated a dozen sigils. A giant breaking its chains, a merman, a sunburst, a battleaxe, a moose, a mailed fist, three green trees, twin towers. A bloody flayed man.


	12. Shadrich

 

* * *

  **SHADRICH**

* * *

 

_In which the Mad Mouse roars_

 

He picked his way through the coarse underbrush on his rangy courser, silently cursing his companion. “Bryon!” he hissed.

“What?” the other sellsword almost shouted back, putting a hand to his armored helm and narrowly avoiding a low-hanging branch.

Shadrich sighed. “Be quiet,” he hissed back. Nobody ever noticed a mouse unless it wanted to be noticed, he reflected, thinking of the mouse on the shield that he had slung over his back. A mouse quietly ate the cheese while the clumsy men blundered around it. Fortunately, he was good at being quiet. Unfortunately, his companion was not.

There was a clatter as Bryon led his horse along an embankment, sending a shower of stones into the Trident below. Annoyed, Shadrich paused – and then caught a sight of campfires in the distance. “Get down,” he hissed.

“How far?” Bryon muttered, leaning down in his saddle. Shadrich didn’t bother answering; he only dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, then continued downstream on foot. He hoped Bryon was less clumsy on foot than mounted.

They were about a mile from the distant campfires when he caught sight of something else in the gathering dusk. Two men in leathers, filling barrels from the river and loading them into a wagon. Foragers from the camp in the distance, Shadrich thought. The cheese for that night.

“Lannisters, you reckon?” Bryon whispered from behind him.

“Further north than I expected,” he whispered back. “Go left; I’ll go right. Wait for my signal. And make sure we get them alive.” _At least I won’t have that oaf following me this way._

He picked his way through the underbrush, watching each step for fallen branches and leaves, till he was only a dozen feet from the foragers. Then he slipped behind the wagon, crouching down behind the loaded barrels until he was only feet from the foragers. He prepared to slip out, quiet as a mouse – and then there was a shout. Silently cursing Bryon, he jumped out, just in time to see one of the foragers swinging an axe at Bryon and the panicked sellsword burying his sword in the foragers’ gut. The second forager struck Bryon down, just before Shadrich brought the flat of his sword down on his head and he crumpled.

 _Oh, bugger,_ Shadrich thought before dragging the two bodies into the woods and tying up the prisoner and reviving him with a bucketful of cold water. No way in seven hells he was going to drag him back to camp.

The next morning, Ser Shadrich was riding back over the same ground, but this time with a flag of truce flying overhead. He’d brought the prisoner back to the Blackfish’s camp, only to receive a tongue-lashing for having got into a fight with the foragers – it wasn’t even his fault, anyway. Turned out the men weren’t Lannisters at all but Boltons, and the prisoner claimed that they were on their way to fight the Lannisters, like they were. And so the Blackfish was riding to talk with Lord Bolton, and Shadrich got to show the way. And, he supposed, to be handed over if there was a fuss about the dead men. _I should have stayed in Fenwick or kept escorting rich merchants,_ Ser Shadrich thought morosely. Making money fighting for the Blackfish wasn’t worth it if one was dead. Hopefully whoever commanded the sprawling camp before them would be a forgiving sort.

His hopes sank when the lord wearing the same colors as the men they’d attacked the previous night rode forwards under a flag of truce. Saying Lord Bolton looked forgiving would have been like calling a mouse imposing. Maybe he should have run the previous night.

“Who are you, and who do you fight for?” a captain wearing steel greeves over his shanks riding by Lord Bolton demanded.

“Ser Brynden Tully. I serve the Riverlands, and these men…Stannis Baratheon, I suppose.”

“Indeed.” Roose Bolton seemed to find something rather amusing for himself as he smiled thinly. “So are we.” He motioned to the other side of the camp, at the long lines of Northern infantry fording the Trident.

“Riders arrived from Lord Stark yesterday,” explained a Northern lord who had introduced himself as Robett Glover. “We had not been sure of the truth of Lord Stannis’ claims of the bastardry of the royal children – it seemed rather convenient – until the Lady Catelyn met Lord Robb south of the Twins with word that Tyrion Lannister had been responsible for an attack on Lord Stark’s brother, and that it and Lord Eddard’s death must have been to hide the truth of the Lannisters’ incest. We were already on our way to face Tywin Lannister, so the riders brought orders to continue and pledge fealty to King Stannis if we found him. Is he with you? We thought he might have sailed to attack King’s Landing.”

“No,” answered the Blackfish. “Stannis Baratheon is in the field south of the Trident. We are on our way to meet him with the levies of the western Vale, as the fleet could not take the entire army and to go by land would have taken too long and allowed Tywin to bottle up the High Road.”

“Where is the Imp?” Ser Marwyn Belmore asked. “Last we saw him, the Lady Catelyn was taking him to Gulltown and then White Harbor. He would be a good hostage, especially as they say that the Lannisters hold two of Lord Stark’s sisters hostage.”

Roose Bolton sighed. “I would have thought to make good use of him as a hostage as well, but Tyrion Lannister is dead. The Lady Catelyn arrived at White Harbor with her prisoner shortly after word arrived of Lord Eddard’s death. An angry mob tore him apart to avenge their beloved Ned.” There was just a hint of amusement in Lord Bolton’s pale eyes at the cries of consternation. Shadrich remembered how the Lady Lysa had meant to have the Imp thrown out the Moon Door, and how the refusal of Ser Brynden and Ser Marwyn to obey her had put an end to that idea.

But before they could dwell any longer on the unexpected news, there was a commotion as a knight came riding up, on a horse lathered in sweat. “Ser Andrew Tollett?” the Blackfish asked.

The Vale knight nodded, dispensing with the customary greetings. “I come from King Stannis. He’s about to engage the Lannisters, two hours’ ride south of us.”

“Not at Harrenhal?” It had been some days since they had been able to contact Stannis’ army by raven.

“Harrenhal has fallen to the Lannisters. We were marching towards Darry when the Lannister army intercepted us. King Stannis sends orders to join him with all possible speed. I am to direct you to the battlefield. He says that you will find him still at the battlefield, dead or alive.”

“Alive is preferable,” the Blackfish muttered. “Ser Shadrich! Ride back to the camp and alert them to march immediately. Cavalry in the front. Leave the supply train.” And then he was turning to confer with Lord Bolton in quieter tones.

It was a reprieve, Shadrich realized, and he wasted no time in taking it. And there was another thought in his mind as he spurred his horse back towards the Vale camp. Half an hour back to the camp, half an hour to retrace the ground, an hour to ford the river, two hours ride south – it would be at least four more hours before the Vale cavalry reached the field. It would probably take the same amount of time for the Northern infantry to reach the field, and even longer for the Arryn foot. He hoped that the battle hadn’t already been lost when they arrived. It took a very foolish or a very poor sellsword to bet against Tywin Lannister, and he’d been the latter when he signed up with the Blackfish. He wondered if he’d been the former as well.

Four hours later, his heart in his mouth, Shadrich decided he’d definitely been foolish. Riding a bit ahead of the rest of the Vale cavalry with the Blackfish, they’d had finally caught up with the Northern infantry, which was advancing up a series of knolls. To the south, beyond a few more knolls, a battle was raging, and it was clear that the Lannisters were winning. Royce and Grafton banners floated above the two furthest knolls, but a sea of Lannister red was driving the Vale pikemen back towards the crest of the hill. Even further beyond, the Westermen had driven a massive salient into the center of Stannis’ line. Only a thin line of Vale and Narrow Sea men, rallied in one spot or another, stood between them and the open ground to Stannis’ rear. Here and there Shadrich could see men slipping away and running, one, two, a dozen. It would soon have been a rout, Shadrich thought; if he was down there, he’d probably be joining them. Foraging, escorting merchants, scouting – none of it matched an actual battle.

But then the Northern infantry was pouring over the knolls, horns blowing, Stark and Bolton and the foot of a dozen other Northern houses. A quiet seemed to pass over the battlefield as the two armies locked in an embrace of death paused to see what was happening. And then Stannis’ army seemed to take heart, and everywhere the stag advanced.

It was not for nothing that the Lannister army was said to be the most disciplined one in Westeros, though. Shadrich had no idea how, but the Lannister reserve was pulling back and turning to face the Northerners, forming a wall of spears on both sides of the stream that now ran red with blood. The knights around Shadrich were growing restless. “Why don’t we join them?” one of them asked the Blackfish as the Northern shieldwall advanced to meet the Lannister one. Shadrich shuddered. He had been hoping the Northerners might be able to settle this whole bloody affair, and then he’d go back to scaring off bandits.

“Wait,” the Blackfish ordered. “Keep your heads down. Let’s get back down behind the knoll.” And then Shadrich realized what the Blackfish was going to do. He was going to wait till the Westermen were engaged on both their front and flanks, and then use the knolls to shield his cavalry’s movements before they fell on the Lannister rear. The Lannisters would be surrounded.

Screams and the clashing of metal on metal signaled that the Northerners had reached the enemy, and the Blackfish nodded. “Follow me!” he shouted as he spurred his horse towards the edge of the knolls.

“Should we put up King Stannis’ banner?” Ser Marwyn Belmore asked.

The Blackfish grimaced. “Put up the damn stag.” And then they were charging, the stag and the trout and the falcon flying above them. For some reason Shadrich thought of a battle fifteen years earlier, at the ford they had just crossed, where Baratheon and Arryn and Tully and Stark had ended a dynasty…

Then his exhausted horse stumbled and he was flying through the air. He struck the ground hard, thanking the Seven that he was wearing boiled leather and not mail. A horseman barely managed to jerk his horse away from riding over him, and he had to roll to avoid being trampled by another. _It wasn’t for nothing that people call me the Mad Mouse._ He groped around till he found his sword, and then stood up. The rest of the cavalry had passed him already, and his courser had run away. _Well,_ Shadrich thought a bit ruefully, _I guess that’s settled._ He was certainly not walking into the battle.

But then he heard a familiar neighing, and Ser Andrew Tollett was riding up, holding his courser’s reins. “My horse’s winded, too. Had to stop and then caught yours,” the Vale knight explained.

Shadrich could do nothing but mount his horse and ride with Ser Andrew back towards the battle. He wondered if the Vale knight had been afraid as well. Were they leading each other towards something they both desperately wanted to avoid? He glanced over at his companion, but Ser Andrew’s face revealed nothing until the Vale knight pulled up. “Look!” Ser Andrew exclaimed, pointing beyond the melee forming as hastily assembled groups of Lannister knights met the Blackfish’s charge.

It could only be Lord Tywin Lannister himself. No other could wear armor or clothing so opulent. A greatcloak sewn from layers of cloth-of-gold, so large that its drape covered most of his stallion’s hindquarters; a greathelm crowned by a golden lioness; heavy steel plate inlaid with ornate gold scrollwork and burnished to such a high sheen that it shone like fire in the light of the setting sun. He was among the ballistae and catapults that had once been to the Lannister rear, with the artillerymen hastily trying to turn them around towards the Northerners on the flank and the Blackfish’s men in the rear. A number of lords and knights were by him, seemingly at the receiving end of a harangue of some sorts.

“Come on!” Ser Andrew exclaimed.

“Where?” Shadrich exclaimed in horror as he followed Ser Andrew’s hungry gaze. “You can’t be thinking of…” He suddenly felt as out of place here as Bryon had been in scouting.

“Just think of the ransom if we capture him!” Ser Andrew glanced down at his moth-eaten surcoat and ill-fitting armor. An ordinary lord’s ransom, whether back to his family or to their own overlord, would be enough to make them comfortable for life; Lord Tywin would be worth far more. “Are you coming?”

He didn’t know if it was some of his old courage returning or just shame, but Shadrich nodded. He followed Ser Andrew as they skirted their way around the cavalry melee and towards Lord Tywin. The Lannisters had not noticed them yet in the confusion. He could catch snippets of Lord Tywin’s shouting. “A lion does not flee. Stannis is beaten, do you understand? Stannis is beaten!”

But then one of the Lannister men-at-arms noticed the two, and with a cry he rode towards Ser Andrew. The Tollett knight nimbly sidestepped with his horse and brought down his sword on the rider’s head and, to Shadrich’s astonishment, began _laughing_. “Only one? Do the rest of you lot yield?” With cries of fury, most of the remaining riders around Lord Tywin charged at Ser Andrew.

 _He’s drawing them away for me._ “Selfless bastard,” Ser Shadrich muttered as he peeled away. He didn’t really have a choice now. It was fight or die. With a cry, he rode towards Lord Tywin. Their blades crossed, once, twice, three times. _I’ll never win this,_ Shadrich realized. Lord Tywin’s ripostes had too much finesse, and the old lord seemed stronger that Shadrich. He’d never be able to disarm him. _A mouse,_ he thought wildly, _a mouse. A mouse against a man and a horse…_

Shadrich brought his blade down on the head of Lord Tywin’s courser, behind the armored forehead. The courser stumbled and Lord Tywin fell with it, his helmet rolling away. “Yield!” Shadrich screamed, but then two Lannister knights were upon him. Now, at last, he was in his element…hiding. His heart was no longer in his mouth. He ducked, he squeezed in between two catapults, he rode around some frightened artillerymen. He glanced back to see other Vale knights arriving and engaging the remaining Lannister knights. Once he realized he was alone, Shadrich looked around in panic for Lord Tywin. Thousands of galleons, within his grasp…

Tywin Lannister was bellowing at some of the Lannister artillerymen. They’d unhitched a mule from a ballista and were offering it to him. “The Lord of Casterly Rock does not ride a mule. Find me a horse! A horse!” But then he saw Shadrich riding towards him, and Tywin Lannister mounted the mule.

“Yield!” Shadrich started to scream as he spurred his horse towards Lord Tywin and his mule, before he thought better of it and paused to make sure there were no Lannister knights to ambush him or Vale knights to steal the ransom. Then Shadrich saw that Lord Tywin’s mule was refusing to move, no matter how hard he spurred it or even struck it with the flat of his sword. Now Shadrich rode hard. Lord Tywin had to dismount, lest he be stuck facing the wrong direction.

“Who are you?” Lord Tywin demanded, glaring up at Shadrich. Shadrich felt his heart beating hard. He’d never thought there would be a moment of triumph like this for the Mad Mouse.

“Ser Shadrich of the Shady Glen, a hedge knight in service to Ser Brynden Tully. Do you yield?”

“No,” Lord Tywin spat. And then he charged, and Shadrich had to fight for his life. Even mounted on his horse, it was all he could to do to parry Lord Tywin’s cuts. The Lord of Casterly Rock seemed to fight like a man possessed. And Shadrich felt his heart sinking. He couldn’t parry forever, and Lord Tywin was too skilled to be disarmed easily. He began tentative ripostes, hoping to strike Lord Tywin in the arm or shoulder. But then Lord Tywin made the mistake of leaning the wrong way while parrying, and Shadrich’s blade sank into his opponent’s neck. The Lord of Casterly Rock glared one last time at Shadrich, and then crumbled into the mud.

Shadrich remained there, staring at his bloody blade and the body lying there, the cloth-of-gold greatcloak sinking into the mud beneath it. He wondered how many more living Lannisters there were who’d be after him now. “Why couldn’t you yield?” he muttered. “Why couldn’t you yield?”


	13. Results of Battle of the Knolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little wikibox showing the results of the battle. 
> 
> Also, the last Rolland chapter was edited so that it was Mychel Redfort who was the only remaining Redfort son not dead or a captive; I had him mixed up with Jasper.


	14. Robert Arryn

 

* * *

  **ROBERT ARRYN**

* * *

 

_In which the fire rises and kettles come to a boil_

 

He now hated cats.

The first time the bald master told him to catch one of the handful of cats that roamed around the castle, Robert had ordered a couple of the guardsmen to do it for him, and the bemused guards had complied. When he brought them back to Syrio, the fencing master had looked knowingly at him, and the next morning sent him after cats again. This time, the guards had been told not to help him.

Robert had then turned to Ser Gilwood Hunter– the other Vale knights had decided Gilwood would stay behind on Dragonstone as they went to war – but the knight was always in his cups now and only managed to scare everything away as he stumbled around the corridors. Shireen was somewhat more helpful. The princess had used curds and whey from the kitchen to lure a cat for him, only for the cat to throw up as he was showing it to Syrio (Shireen was quite distressed when she found out later).

“You will not always have another to think for you, boy,” Syrio had told him with that maddening knowing look, and sent him to find another cat.

Robert missed Rolland Storm.

He’d finally tracked down a cat though. Really, Shireen had done most of the tracking for him, but he’d actually caught it. And now his hands were all scratched up, and they were bleeding, and it hurt so badly. It all made him want to cry, but he didn’t. It would make Shireen sad, and he didn’t like that. So he wiped his hands on his tunic when he thought she didn’t notice and picked up the cat.

“And you will come tomorrow for lessons as well, little girl, no?” Syrio asked with a twinkle in his eye after Robert returned the cat and they finished the rest of the lesson. Shireen had sat on a balustrade watching, her legs swinging with gay abandon. She seemed less pale now as well, and more lively. “You already do everything with Robert when you think I do not see.”

Shireen suddenly seemed all shy again. “Mother won’t like it,” she said.

“Is the Queen Selyse here?” Syrio asked. “Will she see it?  I think not.” And that was true; Robert didn’t see Shireen’s mother very often. And when he did, it was either at meals or in the company of the red priestess and her uncle Ser Axell, praying at the fires that burned constantly now. Syrio did not wait for an answer, only nodding and then walking off towards the tower that he shared with Maester Cressen.

“Let’s got to my rooms,” Shireen told him, grabbing his hands. “I have a salve for those cuts.” It wasn’t fair; she noticed everything. Well, maybe she’d sing a song for him then. He was always trying to get her to sing. And not just any songs, but happy songs, unlike those horrid songs of Patchface’s. “It’ll hurt, but you won’t have scars afterwards.”

“The Lord of Light could wash away all those scars,” a melodious voice from behind them said. It was the red priestess, with Ser Axell Florent trailing along behind her as usual. She placed a hand on Shireen’s shoulder and then stroked the greyscale on the princess’ cheek. “Even the scars on your face. The Lord of Light could wash away that darkness, if you would only embrace his light. Do you never wish for that, child?”

Shireen shook her head. “Father says it’s no good to think about what could have been. That no matter what, I’d be his daughter. You can never change that.”

“You have no idea of what the Lord of Light can do. In the flames, I have seen the traitor Renly and his hosts burning in a field of fire. I saw the Chosen One embracing this power, one that all the hosts of the Arryns and Tullys and Starks could not match. The power of the Lord of Light.”

“I’ve seen this in the flames too,” Ser Axell Florent declared, “and much more. The Tyrell banners coming down from the towers of Highgarden. A sword of vengeance ending their upjumped line, and the blood of Garth Greenhand taking their seat again.”

“But I saw another day as well,” Melisandre warned. “A day where your father died at King’s Landing, felled by a traitor’s sword. A day where Renly sat on the Iron Throne. A future that Stannis can avoid, if he embraces his destiny as the Lord’s Chosen One. Do you not want your father to live, child? Or will you continue to cling to those powerless false gods of yours, who have never done a thing for you, or to wash clean your deformity, or aid your father?”

“Of course I want father to be safe. Baratheon and Arryn and Stark and Tully swords will protect him. There’s power there.” She squeezed Robert’s hand, and he tried not to wince. Shireen could, in fact, get angry sometimes. “There’s power in the Warrior giving Ser Rolland courage when he goes to war. There’s power in the Mother comforting Marya Seaworth when she gives birth and helping her to love them all. There’s power in the Father giving faith for Devan that Ser Davos and father will come back home alive…and for me. There’s power in making Septon Barre spend his life gathering food for the smallfolk and teaching them to read. And all you can offer is death and…” Shireen’s voice cracked slightly. “And illusions. Come, Robert.”

Robert’s head was spinning as he followed Shireen away, back through the outer walls and along a parapet. He’d have to ask Shireen sometime to explain what it all meant. But not then, he decided as he glanced at the firm set of Shireen’s jaw and the lock of hair matted with sweat falling across it. He was rather sad; it wasn’t very likely now he’d get a song. Maybe if he complained about being…

Lost in his thoughts, he nearly collided with Shireen. She’d stopped in horror, with her hand over her mouth. Robert followed her gaze into a doorway. There was a dead body sprawled there, one he recognized as belonging to Ser Corliss Penny. Blood trickled into his lifeless eyes and down his face and tunic from his forehead, on which was carved a seven-pointed star.

“Call for help,” Shireen whispered.

Among the first to arrive were Ser Clayton Suggs and Ser Godry Farring, the latter of whom let out a cry of anger. “This is the fault of the rabble-rousing septon!” he declared. Robert remembered that Ser Corliss had spent much of his time, since King Stannis left, insulting and harassing Septon Barre. And several knights close to the septon had responded in turn. Too many people seemed angry all the time. ”Look at that star!”

“How dare you!” gasped Ser Hubard Rambton. “Do you seriously think our septon was capable of this?”

Ser Godry was in Ser Hubard’s face now. “ _Our_ septon? That idolater is not _my_ master. But he is yours! What poison has that idolator been whispering in your ears?”

“You dare accuse me of this?”

“I recall you saying that Ser Corliss and I deserved to be struck down by the _Father_.”

“After you said that Septon Barre and I should be burned in one of your accursed nightfires. If you wish to accuse me of this, say it to my face and settle it with steel like a man!”

“Stop!” Shireen was trying to shout, but she was drowned out by the babel of accusatory voices. Ser Godry had drawn his sword, a moment before Ser Hubard did as well, and Ser Clayton. The men who were farther away started to draw their swords when they saw the bare steel, and soon half the gathered men had their swords at somebody else’s throat.

“Stop this nonsense!” a voice bellowed. Ser Gilbert Farring, the second-in-command of the garrison, had elbowed his way to the front.

“Cousin Gilbert,” Ser Godry Farring sneered.

“Godry. You and Ser Hubard are to be both in chains until this is resolved. You lot! Take the body below. Now, who was the last person to see Ser Corliss alive…”

Ser Gilbert was interrupted by Ser Axell bulling his way through the crowd. “What’s going on?” the castellan of Dragonstone demanded.

“Ser Corliss is dead. Ser Godry accused Septon Barre of being responsible and he and Ser Hubard nearly came to blows, so I’ve ordered the two of them arrested…”

“Reverse that order. Ser Godry, arrest Septon Barre. Ser Clayton, you know what to do till we find out who was responsible. The rest of you, disperse.” Ser Godry shoved past the bowing Ser Gilbert, a sneer on his face; the others slowly sheathed their steel and dispersed.

“I feel sick,” Robert told Shireen, a moment before starting to spew over the black stone of the wall. It was one thing to see people falling out of the Moon Door; it was another to see an actual dead body, and all the blood.

“Let’s get you to your room,” Shireen said sympathetically. Somehow she wasn’t sick, though she had turned quite pale. She always seemed stronger than him, to his growing shame. So he leaned on her, and left all the blood and vomit behind.

He felt sick the rest of that day, and the next day too. So he stayed in his quarters. It wasn’t nice walking outside, anyway; the tension belied how pleasant it was outside, with a light west wind. Everybody seemed to be angry and looking suspiciously at everybody else.

The second night, it all exploded.

It was the sound that drew him to the window. It took a while for his eyes to focus – they were still weak – but there was no mistaking the swelling, harsh tones of shouting and clashing swords. Men were running about below, and here and there the growing light of the gathering torches flickered off bare steel. He saw the leaning maester hobbling out from his tower with Syrio beside him, shouting something, and then Clayton Suggs walking up to him and striking him in the face. Robert shivered, wondering what was happening. He was frightened, and didn’t want to be alone. Suddenly, the darkness of his chambers seemed suffocating. “Help!” he tried shouting, but it only came out as a whimper. He groped his way towards the door, only for it to swing open. The glare of the torch in the doorway blinded him for a moment, before the recognized the hooked nose, white hair and crooked teeth of a steward who had come with Ser Gilwood. “What’s happening?” Robert whispered. He glanced around and saw the two guards that normally were outside his room slumped over a table.

“You’re in danger,” the man told him. “I’m going to get you to safety.” He grabbed Robert’s hand, pulling him out of the room and down the hallway. “We have to leave the castle, now,”

“What about Shireen?” Robert protested. “I’m not leaving without her.”

The man paused for a moment, seemingly surprised. “She’ll meet us later…”

“Oswell!” It was Ser Gilwood who had interrupted, running down the hallway with two guardsmen behind him. The Vale knight was staggering slightly, a torch in one hand and a drawn sword in the other, with a breastplate haphazardly strapped over one shoulder. “What’s happening? I heard Ser Godry was found murdered. Thank the Seven you thought to get Robert…”

Ser Gilwood never finished, as a shadow stepped behind him and buried a sword in his back. The guardsmen did not have time to react before two more blades, one of them already dripping red, flashed.

“He was going to hurt you,” Oswell declared as Robert stared, horror-stricken, at the blank look on Ser Gilwood’s flushed face as he lay on the floor, his fallen torch flickering a few last times and illuminating the body. “Osney, help carry Lord Robert. We have to hurry.” One of the three shadows – Robert could now see that they all had black hair and identical hooked noses – picked him up, and then they were all running down through the maze of corridors. Horrified, Robert put up no resistance.

The four men took him through a dizzying series of passages and tunnels, finally emerging on the Dragonmont. Torches extinguished, they picked their way over the rocks till they came to a secluded beach, where a rowboat was waiting; and out in the bay, a small sailing vessel.

“Why didn’t we take one of the ships in the harbor?” Robert asked when they at last set him down on the deck of the ship. A few sailors were wordlessly trimming the sails; a knight with a squashed nose, square jaw, and grey hair who seemed to be at the helm nodded at him.

“Be quiet!” Oswell whispered. He bent down to look Robert in the eye. “You’ll be safe. We’re taking you back to your mother.”


	15. Rolland Storm

 

* * *

**Rolland Storm**

* * *

 

_In which paths converge and part again_

He woke to the sound of hammering.

“Stop that,” he muttered.

“’S’not me,” his companion grumbled. Gendry was a boy of few words; Rolland had rarely heard more than a dozen words at a time from the lad since that sour Night’s Watchman, Yoren, had brought him into the royal camp, looking for food and spare tents. King Stannis had happened to see them and had taken an interest in the blacksmith’s apprentice. In the end, the boy stayed with the royal army and Yoren rode off with a couple dozen more men for the Night’s Watch, soldiers who had been caught raping Riverlands women.

“But I am a knight!” Ossifer Lipps had protested to the king as he was dragged off.

“Then remember your vows, ser.”

Rolland barely had time to snicker before King Stannis had turned to him. “Ser Rolland, you will keep Gendry here safe till you have recovered from your wounds; Ser Lyn will command the reserve in your stead.”

Rolland knew it was meant to be a mercy; with his broken arm and wounded side, he would not be much use in a battle. But it still stung; his whole life, ever since that fateful day when he defended that lonely sept near his home in the distant Stormlands, had been dedicated to the battlefield. That is, until he had been placed in charge of young Robert Arryn and now Gendry. Lyn Corbray and Richard Horpe had not helped, with their knowing smirks. “If I ever have need of a wetnurse, I’ll find you,” Corbray had japed once out of Stannis’ earshot. At least Justin Massey was not present. He would have been even more intolerable.

As it was, Rolland had little idea what to do with Gendry. In the end, the boy had become a squire of sorts for Rolland. The boy was a hard worker, even if he always muttered about highborns.

Rolland rolled onto his uninjured side and got to his feet, struggling to pull on a doublet and brigantine with his one good arm. It was indeed hammering from outside the tent that had woken him; the camp was alive with the never-ending work of repairing and building. The army had not moved far from the battlefield in the past week. It seemed that a victory took as long to recover from as a defeat.

After breaking his fast with hard bread and a thick slice of cheese and setting Gendry to cleaning his armor, Rolland made his way to the royal pavilion. Stannis was already there with most of his lords and captains, gathered around a map of the Riverlands and Crownlands. Rolland found a place at the corner of the table, watching as Devan Seaworth pushed the little figures of stags and lions and wolves and falcons – always having the right figures seemed to be the young squire’s pride and delight – around the map.

A lonely lion perched on top of Harrenhal, where Ser Addam Marbrand and Lord Farren had escaped with a few thousand Lannister survivors. The rest of the lions in the eastern Riverlands had been swept off the field. Lord Tywin was dead, along with Lord Jast, Ser Lymond Vikary, and Ser Lyle Crakehall – Rolland, especially his left arm, was well familiar with the details of that. Lords Lefford, Farman, Kenning, and Sarsfield had been captured, along with Sers Forley Prester, Harys Swyft, and Rolland Crakehall and hundreds of other knights and lordlings. On Stannis’ side, Lords Sunglass, Ruthermont, and Cerwyn, and a son each of Coldwater, Waynwood, and Mooton had fallen. So had old Lord Redfort and two of his sons; a third had been captured, leaving the recently-knighted Mychel Redfort to anxiously take their place at the council table. Another lion, followed by a wolf, faced towards the Golden Tooth. Ser Vardis Egenhad returned from Riverrun and, along with the allegiance of Robb Stark, had brought word that the Northern cavalry was chasing the survivors of the Kingslayer’s army, now under the command of Lord Brax and the Mountain, back to the Golden Tooth. And far to the south, a lone lion rested on the massive splotch of King’s Landing, the biggest prize of them all.

A good two hours were spent in the mundane but necessary business of each commander describing how many men he still had, and arguing over what equipment and stores they would need. When it was at last over, King Stannis motioned at one of the falcon tokens and Devan wordlessly moved it. “Lord Belmore,” Stannis commanded, “you will take command of Lord Redfort’s wing and besiege Harrenhal, with whatever Riverlords you can gather.” The rather portly lord, who looked much happier on the ground then in the saddle, nodded in relief. Some of the surviving lords from Lord Redfort’s wing looked unhappy at being left behind; but their men had borne the brunt of the Battle of the Knolls, as the recent battle was being called, and were in no condition to march all the way to King’s Landing. “Lord Velaryon, you will embark your wing and a quarter of the Northern infantry at Maidenpool. When we are ready, you will attack King’s Landing from the sea. Ser Brynden, you will march along the coast to take Duskendale and Rosby and ensure that the army can be supplied by sea.” Daven pushed a seahorse to the east, adding a wolf, and pushed a trout and falcon to the southeast. “Lords Royce and Bolton, we will march down the Kingsroad to take King’s Landing. Kevan Lannister has taken command there; we must expect to have to storm the city.”

“What news of Lord Renly?” Lord Royce asked.

Stannis scowled. It was Richard Horpe who answered. “Last we heard, he was feasting his way up the Roseroad. He had not yet reached Bitterbridge.”

“He means to let us and the Lannisters bleed each other out,” Ser Brynden grumbled.

“It is the Lannisters who have bled!” Harrion Karstark shouted, not taking note of Mychel Redfort’s scowl. “Let him feast while we take King’s Landing.”

“We have feasted on glory!” Symond Templeton declared. “On the sweet meat of victory, which is more than Renly’s cowards can say!” Many of the younger lords cheered. Flushed with victory, it was easy to forget that they had been a couple hours from losing the war.

“Be quiet,” Stannis ordered curtly. He traced a finger along the map. “Renly must cross the Blackwater Rush to reach King’s Landing. Lord Bolton, if we reach the city before Renly, I will require you to station some of your men to the west of the city, to watch for any crossings.”

Lord Bolton nodded, not a hint of emotion in his pale eyes. “It shall be done, your grace.”

With that, the meeting broke up and Rolland found his way back to his tent. “You did well,” he told Gendry, taking note of his burnished armor.

The boy shrugged. “Y’get to know good armor as a blacksmith. It’s not pretty but that’s good steel. Now, there was a knight who came by looking to sell a suit of armor. Probably cost a pretty penny to make, all studded with rubies and gems, and wouldn’t be worth shit in a fight.”

“Who was the knight?”

“Wouldn’t say, but his sigil was a white mouse. Mighty keen to sell the armor, he seemed.”

Rolland was bemused. “That was Tywin Lannister’s armor...” he broke off as he noticed shouting in the distance, coming closer and closer to the center of the camp. “What is it?” he asked, stepping out of the tent and accosting a man-at-arms.

“There’s a man and girl who just arrived. The man claims he’s one of the Kingsguard!” The man-at-arms pointed at an approaching pair, guards all around them. It was a large man with his arms bound behind his back and a slight girl with a veil wrapped around her head. Both looked worn and dirty; the man was covered in dust and grime, and the girl smelled of dead fish.

“Call the king!” somebody shouted from the gathering crowd.

“The king is here,” Stannis snapped as he stepped out of the royal pavilion, Vardis Egen and Lyn Corbray behind him. “What do you have to say? Be quick about it.”

“Ser Mandon?” Ser Vardis exclaimed, spotting the large man. “Mandon Moore?” Rolland remembered Vardis mentioning that the two had fought together in Robert’s Rebellion.

“Ser Vardis,” the large man nodded. Rolland noticed that his eyes were limp as a dead fish. That was certainly the Kingsguard member. “Your grace.”

“You call me your grace, yet last I head of you were serving the usurper in King’s Landing.”

“I have seen the error of my ways. When I heard that Ser Vardis was serving your grace…”

“Ten dragons it’s because of that purge of Valemen in King’s Landing we heard about,” Richard Horpe whispered to Rolland.

“…and so I dressed as a fisherman and left with a wagon of empty fish barrels. A few well-placed coins and I was out of the city,” Ser Mandon finished.

“Fish barrels?” somebody said in disbelief.

“They say I look like a dead fish,” Ser Mandon said, without changing his expression.

“What proof can you provide of your loyalty?” Lyn Corbray asked. “Seems mighty…fishy…to me.”

“A prisoner and hostage I rescued for you.” Ser Mandon turned to the girl. “Take off your veil and tell them who you are.” And with this the girl drew back the veil, revealing a head of fiery red hair.

“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” the girl said, glancing nervously around at all the armed and armored, whispering and leering men. “Elder daughter of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, and I seek your protection.”

“Is there any who can attest to your identity?” Stannis demanded. “That you are not the daughter of some tav…”

Brynden Tully shoved his way to the front of the crowd. “Sansa?” he asked gruffly, putting a gloved hand under her chin, only to remove it when the girl flinched noticeably. “You have your mother’s look.”

“And you are…” the girl asked hesitantly.

“Brynden Tully. I’m Catelyn’s uncle – your great-uncle.”

Something seemed to break in the girl, and she threw her arms around Brynden. “Oh, uncle! It was horrible,” she said, a torrent of words rushing out. “They killed Father, and Septa Mordane, and took Jeyne away. And Joffrey…he made me look at father’s head, and had me beaten till I was bloody, and had Arya beaten, and told me Robb was going to die. And it was all my fault…”

“Hush, hush, you’re safe now. You’re with family. You’re safe. Your mother’s safe in Riverrun. We’ll bring you back to her. You’re with family…” The Blackfish kept saying these words as if they were a refrain to a prayer, as if he could use them to drive away the horrors that the young girl had seen and faced.

Rolland turned and pushed his way back to his tent. “Come,” he told Gendry, who was standing outside the door, watching over the heads of the other onlookers. “This isn’t our moment to watch.”

“I got no family,” the boy grumbled as he ducked back into the tent.

“Neither do I.”

Gendry looked up in surprise. “I thought you was highborn, being a capt’n and talking to the king…”

“My father was Lord Caron, but I never saw him till I was twelve. He’d gotten me on a peasant woman who died when I was young. Said he loved her, but I knew what he’d done; he’d used her and thrown her away. He didn’t do a thing for her when she was dying or for me until he had to. I left soon after meeting him; I couldn’t live with seeing his face.” Rolland thought about what he knew about Gendry. “I suppose we’re not so different, you and me. Serve King Stannis well and you may rise still.”

Gendry folded his arms defiantly. “And did they sell you? Take you as an apprentice for a bag of gold, then sell you to the Night’s Watch and then take you from the Night’s Watch for a few prisoners?”

“You’re a free man…”

“And if I try to walk out of this camp, what will happen?”

“I’d probably be sent to stop you.”

“Maybe we’re really not so dif’rent.” Gendry would say no more, but went back to his work with a savage fervor. _I really am free_ , Rolland told himself, as if he could make true by doing so. _I chose this life, this life of a warrior._

He went to the fields outside of the camp that afternoon to train, taking out his frustration on the target mannequins. His sword arm was still good, though his mobility was limited by the healing wound in his side and he would not be able to carry a shield.

It was evening when Rolland returned to the camp, feeling famished as he passed the dinners being ladled out at the campfires. He drew up short as he neared the royal pavilion; Stannis was wont to dine alone, but the loud clamor of voices indicated that the tent was packed with people. Rolland entered, the guards recognizing him and allowing him to pass, and slipped unobserved beside Richard Horpe. “We _bled_ for you,” Symond Templeton was declaring to Stannis. “We poured out our blood for your claim, and you have so little regard for us that you cannot even protect our lord!”

“What is happening?” Rolland whispered to Richard.

Richard was even more grim-faced than usual. “A raven was sent to Maidenpool from Dragonstone and brought here. Those R’hlorrist bastards stirred up trouble; they’ve besieged Maester Cressen and the Princess in one of the towers. And in the meantime, it seems that Lord Robert has gone missing.”

“Good gods.”

“Ser Andrew Estermont’s been sent to go take command on Dragonstone and arrest Ser Axell and the Red Woman and Lord Celtigar’s been ordered to take the fleet and look for him. But we have no idea where the brat might be – east, west, north – except that he’s not on Dragonstone; by the time they figured out that neither side had him, he’d probably been gone for a couple days. Kidnapped, by the looks of it; his guards were all stabbed.”

“And the Valelords?”

“Gerold Grafton’s already gathering his levies and leaving. Symond Templeton is close to doing the same, and old Lord Hunter may also bolt; his son was killed in the mess. They’re blaming Stannis for allowing the Red Woman to remain on Dragonstone, and several have suggested that Lord Robert was killed in the fighting or even died from our training. You can imagine how our king reacted to _that_ suggestion.”

“It can’t be…” Rolland felt his heart constricting, and wondered why he cared.

Richard Horpe seemed to misunderstand, thinking that Rolland was talking about the training. “You should lie low for the time; some may remember that you were in charge of him.”

Rolland nodded and slipped back out of the tent, standing there in the gathering dark. _It can’t be; it can’t be_ , he whispered. _Robert can’t be dead._ He thought about little hands trying to pummel him and Richard, and sleepless nights spent on a mat outside of the little lord’s room, and the pride he felt when Robert had been able to carry a pile of driftwood the length of a beach, and the almost comfortable parting on the docks of Gulltown. It was strange, Rolland thought, that he cared so much for the little brat. And with a frightening clarity, Rolland knew what he had to do.

He rushed back to his tent, throwing his armor and pan and little carving of the Warrior into his blanket and tying it up. “I’m leaving,” he told Gendry. “Find Richard Horpe; he’ll take care of you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Maidenpool, northeast of here. I’m going to look for a boy.”

Gendry crossed his arms. “Yer not supposed to leave, are you?”

“No. I…I chose to do so.”

“Take me with you.”

That put a stop to Rolland’s frenetic packing. “It’s not safe. I’m supposed to keep you safe.”

“The army’s going back to King’s Landing. They tried to kill me there. ‘Sides, you’ve treated me well, like…like an actual person. I’m done with being traded from master to master.” Gendry smirked a little. “I choose.”

“Stannis will have my head for this,” Rolland muttered. “Well, grab your things. We’re leaving now.”

Gendry tucked his bull’s helm under his arm and they disappeared into the night.

 


	16. Catelyn Stark

 

* * *

**Catelyn Stark**

* * *

 

_In which the Kingslayer sings and a crow is no more_

Ser Desmond Grell was waiting for her outside Lord Hoster's solar. "You called for me, my lady?"

He had called her that before, after Lady Minisa's death, Catelyn remembered with a pang in her heart. She had just been a child then, in truth. But now those who had been hale and hearty were on death's door, and children who had merely existed in the minds of the gods were playing at being men. "Has there been any word from Robb?" Catelyn asked.

"Nothing since the last raven, that they were nearing the Golden Tooth and continuing to battle the Lannisters' rear guard." The old master-at-arms paused. "I'm sure that they'll be able to rescue Ser Edmure and exact justice for the Lannisters’ crimes."

Justice. Vengeance. Robb had promised her that as he rode out the gates of Riverrun, with a smirking Theon Greyjoy and his other noble companions at his side, flushed with success from the Whispering Wood. But could he bring back Ned, or Arya?

_They march the wrong way. Arya is east, not west_ , Catelyn thought for a moment, before remembering her brother and guiltily brushing aside the thought. It was no fault of theirs that Edmure was still a prisoner; Lord Blackwood had prepared to sally forth from Riverrun when word came that relief was imminent, in the hope of rescuing Edmure. But the Mountain and his men had cut their way out of Robb’s trap and alerted the Lannister camps. Lord Brax was breaking camp and hastily beginning a retreat to the Westerlands, with Edmure still a prisoner, by the time Robb arrived, and Blackwood was beaten back.

Catelyn had arrived a few days later, to a nearly-emptied Riverrun. The Riverlords had scattered – some joining Robb in chasing after the Lannisters, some like Blackwood and Bracken returning to reclaim their lands – before Catelyn had ordered the gates shut in Lord Hoster’s name.

She was the lady of Riverrun again, and yet she could not help feeling like an imposter. _I should be in Winterfell with Bran and Rickon; I should have peace to mourn Ned._ “Family, duty, honor,” she whispered.

Some of her prayers had been answered in recent days with word that Sansa was safe. She had never met Ser Mandon and did not know what measure of a man he was, but Catelyn was sure the Seven had guided his steps. But Arya had been left behind as a hostage in King’s Landing, and King Stannis was marching there, determined to take the city. If the Lannisters could try to kill innocent Bran, what compunction would they have about executing a hostage?

When Catelyn and Lysa were girls, they could go to their uncle Brynden with their troubles. But Brynden was also gone, marching with King Stannis. There was some whispers that he would be appointed steward for Lord Hoster, but for the nonce the king found him more useful as a field commander.

“My lady?” Ser Desmond asked uncertainly, interrupting her musings.

“I must speak with the Kingslayer.” She needed answers, however much she dreaded them.

Jaime Lannister was being kept in a tower cell, leaning against the barred window. “Lady Stark,” he said when Ser Desmond had uncovered the grating in the door and stepped aside, allowing the two into sight of each other. “I’d offer you a seat, but I fear that this cell is lacking for a proper reception.”

“What you have is due to your birth and station. What you deserve is far less.”

The Kingslayer’s response was a hoarse chuckle. “I assure you, the mattress is lumpy, the food tasteless, the gaoler disagreeable, and the present company boring. You’re welcome to try it, if you wish.”

“I did not come to exchange japes, Kingslayer.”

“I didn’t think so.” Jaime remained leaning against the window, smirking. “Well, what is it? I’m afraid I can’t dance a jig for you if that’s what you want; that’s for Tyrion to do.”

“You pushed my son Bran out a window,” Catelyn declared. It angered her to see such insolence from the Lannister. “Why? He was just a boy. You were a knight, sworn to defend the weak and innocent.”

“He was weak enough, but perhaps not so innocent. He was spying on me and Cersei.”

“You admit the truth of what King Stannis says then. You are the father of Joffrey and the rest.”

“You seem very certain of that. Why bother asking me?”

Catelyn leaned in and gripped the bars on the door. “I want it from your own lips. I want you to look me in the eye as you say it.”

Jaime’s answer was a hoarse laugh. “Oh, I’ll humor you. I’ve always loved my sister. Yes, I fucked her. I’d do it all again in an instant, and if I had to kill all your children to protect that, I would do that too.”

Catelyn felt her hands clenching so tightly that her fingernails dug into her bruised palms. “Your crimes will have earned you a place of torment in the deepest of the seven hells, if the gods are just.” _And if I could send you there, I would do it in a heartbeat._

A shrug was the response. “Oh, I doubt I’ll be visiting there for some time. You don’t dare to execute me. Your brother hasn’t been here to repay my kind hospitality, so my men must still hold him. And I heard that my sister holds both of your daughters as prisoners. If I die, so do they.”

“Sansa is safe. Ser Mandon Moore was a true knight – unlike you – and brought her to King Stannis.”

The Kingslayer’s smile faded, for just a moment, before his smirk returned. “Ser Mandon, eh? I never did like him. Eyes like a dead fish, and as much of a bore. He and Stannis will get along splendidly, I think. A court of bores. Speaking of Stannis, did you know that he always resented your beloved Ned? King Robert was always talking about it. ‘Ned is a better brother than Stannis, Stannis thinks he should be hand rather than Ned, Stannis is jealous of Ned’s wife.’ Oh, I’m sure the old lobster will gladly promise you my head and my sister’s, but you Starks will never get a thing of his own as reward for supporting him. He might not be able to give you my head. Who will be his champion?  One of his codfish knights? Some Vale stripling or greybeard? Your little boy or your…old uncle? I could carve up any one of them.”

“One day, if the gods are just, Arya and Edmure will be returned to us. Then your day will come, Kingslayer. You will be weak from lack of food and exercise; you will not have trained for weeks. You will not escape.” Catelyn turned away. “And then I shall mourn in peace.”

“Long may you wait, then. Send my regards to my brother, will you? I hope you’re treating him better than me.”

_He has not heard_ , Catelyn realized. “Your brother Tyrion is dead.”

For the first time, Jaime seemed to lose his composure. He stared at Catelyn for some long moments, before striding over to the door and gripping the bars. “I swear to you, if you’ve killed him, then I will wrap my hands around your neck and wring the life from you, lady or no lady.”

“It was not my doing.” She thought back to that bitter day. “We had just disembarked at White Harbor. There was mourning and all the people were in the streets, though we did not know why. I feared what it was, but did not want to believe it. Then a messenger from Lord Manderly arrived with the word that Ned was dead. I wanted peace to mourn, Ser Jaime. But then somebody in the crowd started to shout that a Lannister was on the ship and calling for his blood. How they knew, I do not know. The crowd went wild. Lord Manderly’s guards were able to bring me to safety in the castle, but in the confusion they were not able to save your brother. Or perhaps they did not try, and thought it justice for Ned as well.”

Jaime was silent, and Catelyn nodded to Ser Desmond. She turned to look back at Jaime before the window into the cell was closed. “I did not wish for your brother to die, but that doesn’t mean I had to save him.”

She found her way to one of the battlements. From there she could look out over the rolling hills surrounding Riverrun; here and there peasants were tilling the ruined fields, hoping for one more harvest before winter. She remembered the paths she and Lysa and Petyr would once ride, when they were carefree children. Bran would have loved to squire here, Catelyn thought. And Arya…wild Arya, who would ride like the wind…Catelyn had wanted answers from Jaime, and yet she found the answers less than reassuring.

It was there that Lord Jason Mallister found her. He was one of the Riverlords who had stayed at Riverrun, after having taken a wound in the battle; some of his levies had gone with Robb and the rest were helping to rebuild and garrison Riverrun. “Is there something troubling you, my lady? You should not stay here; you’ll catch a chill.”

“I was thinking of my daughter Arya. I fear for her safety in hands of the Lannisters. Arya was a trial, it must be said. Half a boy and half a wolf pup. Forbid her anything and it became her heart’s desire. She had Ned’s long face, and brown hair that always looked as though a bird had been nesting in it. I despaired of ever making a lady of her. She collected scabs as other girls collect dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. Captivity will not be good for her. I fear that the Lannisters will kill her, if Cersei is as cruel as Jaime.”

“I have heard rumors that Ser Kevan Lannister has been sent to take charge of King’s Landing,” Lord Mallister said, with what he hoped was reassurance. “We can hope that he is of a better sort than Jaime.”

“He was with Lord Tywin when they sacked King’s Landing and killed Aegon and Rhaenys,” Catelyn reminded him. “I fear I must mourn for my family again. When will this end, Lord Jason? When will this end?”

“I asked that when the Mad King burned my father and brother. There was no answer, Lady Catelyn. I could only soldier on.”

They stood silently atop the battlements, misty thoughts their only company. It was Lord Mallister who broke the silence, pointing out a lone rider coming from the north. “News from Winterfell?” he suggested.

“I shall go to see what word he brings,” Catelyn agreed. She had to set aside her thoughts and be the lady of Riverrun again.

But when they reached the courtyard, her heart constricted. There, looking curiously around him and clothed in a dusty grey cloak, was the bastard.


	17. Davos Seaworth

 

* * *

**Davos Seaworth**

* * *

 

_In which the Stormlords fail_

If the Bucklers meant to entrap two of Stannis’ envoys, they were going to great lengths to make them feel welcome first. The great hall of Bronzegate was a riot of sound and color; jesters flipped down the gaps between the tables, scattering the dogs that scrambled for greasy scraps from the feast. Singers sang “Iron Lances” and “The Lusty Lad” and more. A new song, “The Mouse That Roared” – about the downfall of a lion, covered in the blood of others, at the hands of a doughty mouse – had also made its appearance, to great applause.

Justin Massey was at home here, jesting and drinking with the Buckler and Grandison men. Perhaps he understood them better. But Davos was still uncomfortable, regardless of the fact that these Stormlanders had declared for Stannis, as the Estermonts had already done. Or perhaps it was the example of the Estermonts that made him uneasy.

The Estermonts had happily helped to burn the Tarths’ little navy and merchant fleet, and then settled down for a comfortable siege of Evenfall Hall. It had not escaped Davos’ notice that this left the Estermonts with the only merchant fleet on the eastern coast of the Stormlands. He did not expect the Estermonts to budge any further; like their namesakes, they seemed comfortable with snapping and then curling in their shell, safe on their islands from any reprisal from Storm’s End.

However, removing the threat of the Tarths’ ships and securing their harbor, along with the Estermonts’ Greenstone, did give Stannis control of the seas. With no other major anchorages except Storm’s End itself between Massey’s Hook and the Sea of Dorne, Davos’ squadron could raid and land all along the coast with impunity. It was in a quiet cove along the coast that Davos and Justin had been rowed ashore, to make their way inland to Bronzegate.

The Bucklers promised to be of more help. There was a price, of course; Lord Ralph Buckler wanted to be Steward of the Stormlands, and would only raise his banners for Stannis if another house would join them. This came in the form of the Grandisons – or more precisely, a cadet branch of the Grandisons.

“Ser Narbert Grandison remained loyal to Robert while his brother declared for the Mad King,” Justin Massey had explained as they rode to Bronzegate. “But after Lord Grandison was defeated, Narbert only received a small keep. Meanwhile, King Robert drank with Lord Grandison and left him with most of his lands. Narbert wants Grandview, of course.”

Massey had said this as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but all this politicking made Davos uneasy. Davos had been a smuggler; he was well accustomed to liars and crooks. But that lying and cheating had not been wrapped in gaudy declarations of fealty and leal allegiance. He fingered the bag around his neck. That had been the price of his loyalty.

His musings were interrupted by Lord Ralph Buckler’s reedy voice, the musicians and jesters falling silent at their lord’s signal. “My lords and captains, distinguished knights of King Stannis – long may he reign! – loyal men…”

Davos shifted uncomfortably as Lord Buckler droned on. Saddle sores were an unpleasant fact of being away from the sea for him.

“…it is time for us to retire and take council.”

“Well,” whispered Justin, regretfully eying a passing tray of capons, “let us see what cunning plan Lord Buckler has.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You will not take Storm’s End!”

Justin Massey’s voice rose shrilly above the clamor of voices around the table. “You doubt our courage?” a knight in Buckler livery declared.

“Not your courage, Ser Brus; only your sanity.”

It seemed the plan was Ser Brus’, and his father had agreed to it. “Since we declared for King Stannis, Ser Courtney Penrose has been gathering men at Storm’s End in Renly’s name,” Ser Brus had explained. “When Lord Ralph marches into Penrose lands, he will be forced to come north to crush us.”

The plan for what would follow was certainly audacious. Eight hundred Buckler and Grandison men would embark on Stannis’ ships, as if they were preparing for a shipborne attack on Parchments, the Penroses’ castle. An abortive naval attack would indeed be made on Parchments; however, the men would really be sailing south for Shipbreaker’s Bay…and Storm’s End. They would land at night, to the west; a hundred of these would go ahead to Storm’s End, wearing Dondarrion colors and carrying Dondarrion banners, and attempt to gain admittance into the castle.

“Lord Beric is said to be dead in the Riverlands,” Ser Brus had declared, “and there are no others of his family who could lead their men. It will not surprise those at the gates that they cannot recognize us. We will be merely those whom Blackhaven can scrape together, answering Ser Cortnay’s muster.”

Once inside the castle, the Buckler men would seize control of the gates and then admit the rest of their little army. “There should only be a skeleton garrison left at Storm’s End,” Ser Brus had finished. “The castle’s strength is in its great curtain wall and cliff face. Once inside that wall and the keep, it is no different from any other castle. We can win a great victory, and rally the Stormlands to our side.”

Justin Massey scoffed. ““You _can_. If no disloyal man alerts Ser Cortnay that you are going south. If no fisherman spots that our ships are loaded with men. If nobody spots us when we land. If Ser Cortnay behaves as you expect. If the guards admit you. If you can overpower them in time. If the rest of your men can get into the castle before they’re slaughtered from the walls. If you can secure the castle before Ser Cortnay comes rushing back. If all of these happen. Gods, are you mad?”

 “If you should fail,” Davos added, “there can be no retreat except back the way you came. There is a sheer cliff running for miles on either side of Storm’s End. The fleet can provide you with no assistance.”

The answer Davos received was silence from some and sneers from others. Narbert Grandison finally spoke. “You think only of retreat, Onion Knight.” Davos could almost feel the pity in Narbert’s voice. An upjumped smuggler, trying to speak of battles when he did not know them.

“Retreat is what you will come to, or death!” Justin Massey declared hotly.

“Do you wish for us to fight for your King Stannis or not?” demanded one of the Buckler captains. “Or would you rather we hide in the hills and forests?”

“We could fight in the hills and forests, yes. And remain alive, and thus of more service to King Stannis and more of a distraction to Lord Renly than by throwing away our lives away.”

“This plan will succeed,” Ser Brus declared in answer to Davos. “The last thing Ser Cortnay will expect is for us to do something so audacious.”

Lord Buckler got to his feet. “Ser Justin, Ser Davos. The plan is risky. When we declared for Stannis, that was a great risk as well. But if it succeeds, we will have taken the seat of House Baratheon and the center of the Stormlands. Whoever holds Storm’s End has held the allegiance of the Stormlords for thousands of years. While Ser Cortnay holds Storm’s End, he can cow the rest of us into submission. But if I hold Storm’s End, they will be far likelier to rally to me and to Stannis.”

“If…”

“Ser Justin, my course is set. You can accept it or go back empty-handed to Stannis.”

Justin Massey blanched as the Buckler and Grandison men cheered and pounded on the table, and Davos knew the day was lost. There was nothing left to do; the truth had only made them more stubborn. He bowed his head. “Gods help us all,” he whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It felt good to be at a tiller again, listening to the familiar crackle of the _Black Betha_ ’s sails in the wind, but Davos’ heart was heavy.

The Buckler and Grandison men should be approaching Storm’s End now. They had rowed ashore with muffled oars at a couple secluded coves two nights earlier, under the new moon. Justin Massey had gone with them. “I will not have Ser Brus and Ser Narbert question my courage,” Massey had declared without any of his customary good humor, his face grim and set as he shouldered a pike.

Davos was alone now, gazing up at the sheer cliff atop which Storm’s End perched. The wind was out of the west; it had blown Davos’ little squadron back to the blockade below the ancient fortress with a vengeance, as if the gods were eager for an end to this little performance.

His son Matthos came clambering up the ladder to the quarterdeck. “ _Wraith_ and _Lady Marya_ are in position. _Defiance_ , too.” There was a bit of disdain in Matthos’ voice at the mention of Aurane Waters’ ship. It was performing about as well as could be expected, with a captain and crew only getting used to a new ship, but to an experienced sailor the _Defiance_ was a drag.

Their current task was simple enough, though. Once the Buckler men had secured the castle, Davos’ ships would land more men at the docks beneath the cliff face, connected to the castle by the tunnels up which he had once brought his salted fish and onions. In the meantime, they would behave as the ships of the blockade had been doing since they arrived in Shipbreaker’s Bay – sailing back and forth, with ships occasionally leaving in search of prey or to re-water.

“Brus Buckler does not know how to make use of the sea,” Matthos declared as he lingered by the wheel. “He only thinks of the fleet as a horse to be ridden around on water.”

“There are a great many things Ser Brus does not know.”

“You should have said more. They would have listened to you.”

_Matthos speaks for my conscience_ , Davos thought. But the Bucklers had not listened to what he did say. They never would. _They look at me and see only the smuggler, while Matthos sees only the ship on our sigil and not the onions_. “Lord Buckler believed this was his best chance to rise.” And that was the heart of the problem; a Stormlord could not rebel without fear of being crushed by the might of Storm’s End and his neighbors. “Perhaps it may yet succeed.”

“We cannot rely on the Stormlords.”

“What, then? King Stannis cannot spare men to help us.”

“Something more rad…” Matthos broke off as the silence was broken. “Trumpets.”

The plan was for Ser Brus, once admittance had been gained into Storm’s End, to sound trumpets to signal the rest of his army to attack. But this was not a clear clarion; it was a wild, frenetic alarum. The trumpeting was accompanied by shouts from the walls, and screams from the far side of the castle.

Davos trained his Myrish glass on the castle. There were men running about on the walls. He glimpsed black cloaks among them, and a Dondarrion banner. For a moment his hopes soared. Had Ser Brus’ men made it onto the walls? But then Davos saw that they were firing down on the far side of the castle, and he knew.

“Mother above,” he exclaimed. “The Dondarrions are already here.” Ser Brus’ men would be still outside the gates, being pincushioned as badly as their story – and with them, the hopes of a rising among the Stormlords.

Lord Buckler’s orders had been to remain below Storm’s End. But Davos had deferred once already to his wish for a single battle to secure the Stormlands. It was now being fought, and lost. Davos looked up into his sails, crackling in the west wind that had blown them back to Storm’s End. “Signal the squadron. We head west, to land and pick up whatever survivors there may be.”


	18. Devan Seaworth

 

* * *

**Devan Seaworth**

* * *

 

_In which promises are taken deathly seriously_

The parley was held outside one of the northern gates of King’s Landing. Devan thought it was the Dragon Gate, though he wasn’t sure. This bothered him; Stannis’ army might be attacking these very gates later, and he didn’t want to be telling commanders to attack the wrong gate. Bryen Farring would have known; the older squire had served Stannis before he fled King’s Landing. But Bryen had fallen at the Battle of the Knolls, a victim of an arrow that had made no distinction between knight and squire. Shireen would have known too; she always seemed to know everything, and wouldn’t make fun of him for asking. Devan tried not to think of Shireen. Mother would say it did nobody any good to worry, he tried reminding himself.

Devan wondered if he could ask any of the lords at Stannis’ side. He decided against it. A squire’s duties were to serve and speak only when told to, after all. Besides, the thought of asking Roose Bolton a question scared Devan. Yohn Royce would stare down at him beneath bushy eyebrows, and Devan didn’t think Robett Glover would know. He would have to ask Richard Horpe or Lyn Corbray, or maybe even quiet Vardis Egen.

For a mad moment Devan wondered what Kevan Lannister would say if asked. The Lannister looked kindly enough, with his balding, round head and close-cropped beard. But King Stannis had not been so generous. “Kevan Lannister is a dangerous man,” Stannis had declared the night before. “In his older brother’s shadow, perhaps. But it is fools who focus only on what casts the shadow, and not on what lies beneath.” For a moment Devan had wondered who the king was actually talking about.

Ser Kevan brought only two knights with him, both in the glistening white armor of the Kingsguard. Lord Royce and Ser Richard had been discussing this as the Lannister delegation approached. Lord Royce thought this was meant to be an insult – a way of declaring that Stannis did not warrant a larger welcome. Ser Richard, on the other hand, argued that the Lannisters simply could not spare any more men from the defenses. Devan didn’t think the Lannisters would answer that question, either.

“The Hand of the King and Lord Regent for King Joffrey, Kevan of House Lannister,” one of the white knights declared. “For what purpose do you wish to parlay?”

“Lord Royce is Hand of the King,” Lyn Corbray declared. “The trueborn king does not recognize these titles which you presume to bear.”

King Stannis waved a hand. “Enough of this prattering.” He turned to Kevan Lannister. “Ser Kevan. You have not yet taken up arms against your rightful king except in the service of your brother. Lord Tywin is dead. I am calling upon you to bend the knee and deliver me this city.”

“If I do, what will happen to my brother’s family and to my men?”

“You and your men will take an oath, pledging fealty and never to take arms against me, and be allowed to return to the Westerlands. Your brother’s bones and the bones of the other Western lords who fell in battle shall be returned, to do with as you will. Your goodfather, Ser Harys Swyft, will be freed without ransom. However, the adulteress Cersei Lannister and her children who falsely claim the royal dignity shall be delivered to me to face justice for their crimes, and you and your men will renounce all allegiance to their claim. If you refuse these terms, I will storm King’s Landing and treat you all as traitors.”

“You expect me to deliver my brother’s daughter and grandchildren to death?” Kevan Lannister scoffed. “We all know that you never loved your brothers and they never loved you. But there are other families where the word _family_ means something.”

Stannis ground his teeth. This was a source of much resentment for Stannis, Devan knew. “The realm bleeds because your brother’s children loved each other too much,” he shot back.

“A lie that benefits only you, Lord Stannis.”

“A truth that your niece murdered Jon Arryn to try to conceal.”

“Ned Stark as well,” Robett Glover declared, “and Rodrick Cassel. Young Bran Stark would be dead as well, if your murderous kin had their way. And we have heard of the cruelties that were visited on Sansa and Arya Stark by the monster created by the incest.”

Kevan Lannister’s face clouded. “I can assure you that Arya Stark is now being treated befits her status, and King Joffrey’s…youthful mistakes…have been corrected. My answer is still no to your terms.”

“Ser Kevan. Look around you. I have the city invested on land, and my fleet will soon control the Blackwater as well. You have a few thousand men at most. I have heard that the commander of the gold cloaks – craven that he is – and many of his officers and men have deserted you. The armies of the West are broken. There shall be no aid coming for you. You can bend the knee and live, or you can die in vain, and justice will still be served to Cersei and her bastards. There is no reason for you to resist.”

Kevan Lannister nodded. “You can certainly storm the city, Lord Stannis. I am no fool. But then you will be sheltering behind broken walls and gates when Lord Renly comes with twice your numbers. And as soon as you move against the walls, I will have Arya Stark executed. Will you have her blood on your hands?”

There was murmuring among Stannis’ lords. “Do you really consider yourself capable of killing a little girl?” Lord Royce asked, peering at Kevan Lannister beneath his bushy eyebrows.

Kevan’s expression hardened. “I was with Twyin when he secured your family’s place on the throne with the bodies of Aegon and Rhaenys, Lord Stannis,” he said. “If I have to have a dozen girls killed to save my family, then I will do so.”

“Ser Jaime is held prisoner at Riverrun,” Stannis declared. “If you execute Arya Stark, his life is forfeit.”

“You mean to kill Jaime anyway. If you do not wish for Arya Stark to die, I propose the following: you will allow Queen Cersei and her children to depart unmolested for the Westerlands, and give your word that they will not be harmed in the future. Ser Jaime will be released. In return, I will deliver Arya Stark to you and surrender King’s Landing with all its defenses intact, and Ser Addam will do the same with Harrenhal.”

“You are a bold man, Ser Kevan. I cannot allow treason to go unpunished. It is the law; cast that away, and every treacherous lord will seize my subjects and claim their ill-gotten prisoners give them free rein. Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime have made my kingdom bleed, and I will see justice done to them.”  

“So be it.” Kevan Lannister paused, peering first at Robett Glover, and then at Roose Bolton. He paused at the Leech Lord’s cold, expressionless stare, and then turned and rode back towards the walls of King’s Landing.

When the Lannisters were gone, the assembled lords broke into words. “He is bluffing,” Richard Horpe declared. “We should attack at once.”

“He has Arya Stark,” Robett Glover pointed out.

“But who will do the deed?” Vardis Egen asked. “If the reports that we have received about desertions in the garrison are correct, they may deliver her into our hands when we attack.”

Robett Glover shook his head and turned to Stannis. “Your grace, the Northerners are fighting not just for your claim but to avenge Ned Stark. If the cost of doing so is to risk sacrificing his daughter, then we have failed.”

“Kevan Lannister seeks to divide and delay us,” was Yohn Royce’s objection. “We have to force the entrance to the Blackwater so we can prevent Lord Renly from crossing, and we need the shelter of King’s Landing. Any delay on our part only helps Renly.”

“One night.” Robett Glover had been looking around for support; finding none, he turned back to Stannis. “Allow me to try to enter the city tonight and rescue Lady Arya.”

Lyn Corbray scoffed. “You think yourself another Barristan the Bold.”

King Stannis frowned. “If you would take the risk, I will not forbid it. But the attack begins at sunrise.” He gave one last glare at King’s Landing, as if he could will the gates to open, and then turned back towards the growing Baratheon camp. “Lord Royce, Lord Bolton, ensure that your men have sufficient ladders and mantlets for the attack. Ser Vardis, ride to inform Lord Velaryon and the fleet, and discreetly see if there are some of my sailors from King’s Landing who can assist Robett Glover.” The different riders took off to fulfill their appointed tasks, leaving Devan to follow the king and his two would-be Kingsguard back to the royal tent, past the immense bustle of an army preparing for an assault, past the rising siege towers and past the teams of oxen pulling catapults and ballistae – much of it captured Lannister equipment – to the front lines.

Pylos was waiting there at the royal tent. “Two messages for your grace,” the young maester declared. Devan noticed that Pylos had learned to forgo the pleasantries, as Stannis wished. _Lemon water_ , Devan thought. _The King always likes lemon water when he returns from talking. I can make some before being asked_. He hurried to open the crate of lemons in the corner, while Stannis listened to the maester. “Ser Brynden sends word that Duskendale is in our hands; he is leaving a sufficient garrison and marching with his remaining strength on Rosby.”

“That is good; that will secure our supply lines from the Vale. Any word from Dragonstone?”

“Yes, a message arrived from Ser Andrew Estermont. He arrived at Dragonstone as you ordered, but the red priestess, Ser Axell Florent, and Ser Gilbert Farring had already fled before he could arrest them. They took a ship and twenty men.”

Stannis ground his teeth. “They would sacrifice many things except themselves, it would appear. What of my…wife and daughter? Did the traitors take them with them?” Devan paused his slicing of lemons and leaned closer to the maester. Stannis glanced towards him; shamefaced, Devan resumed his slicing.

“They are both safe,” Pylos answered. “The Braavosi swordmaster kept the princess safe in Maester Cressen’s tower, and the queen refused to leave Dragonstone with the red priestess.”

A little of the tension seemed to leave Stannis’ shoulders. “Very well, you may go.” Stannis sat down and nodded to Devan. “You were listening,” the king noted as Devan hurriedly slipped the knife into his belt and stepped forwards to place the ready cup of lemon water at Stannis’ side.

 “Yes, your grace,” Devan admitted. “Father made me promise I’d keep her safe,” he hurriedly added. “And you, too. Father made me promise I’d protect you, that is.”

Stannis’ lips quirked ever so slightly. “You are fond of the Princess Shireen.”

“She is very kind…I promised to protect her,” Devan blurted out. But he hadn’t been able to do anything when Robert Arryn hurt her, when the lordling first arrived. And later, when there was fighting on Dragonstone, he wasn’t there at all.

“Promises.” Stannis tapped his fingers on the side of his chair. “Everybody wants promises. The Northerners want me to promise to avenge their beloved Ned. The Riverlanders want me to promise to burn the Westerlands and rescue their fool of a Tully. The Valemen want me to promise to find their own lord and to give them a queen. Do you understand, Devan?”

“No, your grace.” He was feeling more and more miserable.

“Perhaps if things were different, you and Shireen could have…it is of no matter. There will be plenty of chances for you to fulfill your promise in the future. False friends will circle Shireen like vultures when I am gone. They will flatter her to her face and mock her behind her back. But will you always be faithful to her, Devan Seaworth, as Ser Davos has been to me? Unconditionally?”

Devan nodded, noting that Lyn Corbray had stridden into the tent. “I will,” he said earnestly. “I will be her man, as my father is yours.”

“Very well. I know you will not take those words lightly, nor should you. What is it, Ser Lyn?”

“Ser Wylis Manderly sends word.” Roose Bolton had detached Wylis Manderly with the Manderly and Hornwood men to take up a dozen positions on the western flank of the army, to guard against any attack from that direction. “Most of his men are in position, but there is a castle four leagues to the west – Chales is its name – whose lord insists he will surrender only to the king and not to a Northern knight.”

“Overproud noble,” Stannis scoffed. “How strong is the castle?”

“It is a small castle. But it has high walls and a good view of the Gold Road, and it would split Ser Wylis’ line in half. We should storm it at once.”

“Our siege equipment is here,” Stannis reminded the Vale knight. It was only by a tremendous amount of exertion that the siege train had even been able keep up with the Baratheon army as it dashed south. “I shall go and accept this haughty lord’s surrender. Gather Ser Richard and a couple dozen men-at-arms.”

Chales was about an hour’s ride away. It sat on a hill overlooking the Gold Road, with thick forest on either side of the road leading to the castle. Manderly men were building barricades across the road, while their commander watched and kept a wary eye on the castle. “At last!” Wylis Manderly declared, wiping away some of the sweat cascading down his ruddy face. “This wretched lord…”

“Well, let this farce end. Summon him to answer to his king.”

“Hullo!” Wylis Manderly bellowed up at the castle. “Hullo!”

There was silence.

Wylis Manderly looked around, perplexed. “They were answering but a few minutes ago,” he said. “Hullo…” But then an arrow buried itself in his horse’s shoulder, and the Manderly knight was thrown to the ground as his stead stumbled. Bolts were now beginning to fall thick around them. “Back behind the barricades!” Wylis Manderly bellowed, stumbling to his feet. But Manderly men were still falling, even as they crouched behind their recently-constructed shelter.

“The trees!” Lyn Corbray shouted, pointing at the edge of the woods. Men were emerging there, in black armor and boots. Some were firing from the shelter of the trees; several score others were charging at the Manderly men.

“The missing gold cloaks,” muttered Stannis. That surprised Devan; he had always thought the gold cloaks would wear, well, gold cloaks. “The perfidity of these Lannisters knows no bounds.” One of the Manderly men was blowing a horn now, to summon the other Northern detachments.

“Up shields!” Richard Horpe shouted. “Your grace, we must get you out of here. We cannot risk them capturing or killing you.” Before Stannis could protest, Lyn Corbray seized the bridle of the king’s horse, and Lyn and Richard turned back towards King’s Landing, preceded by the Baratheon men-at-arms. Devan glanced back at Wylis Manderly, now charging as fast as his girth would allow towards the approaching gold cloaks with his men, and then followed the king.

But they had only put a few hundred yards between themselves and the battle when trumpets blared and more men, on horses this time, emerged from the forest bordering the road to King’s Landing. Some of them wore the same black armor as before and bore lances; others were freeriders in boiled leather, or men in battered armor with sigils that Devan did not recognize. They crashed into the Baratheon men-at-arms. With a sinking heart, Devan saw that the king’s guards were outnumbered. He felt for the knife in his belt. _You’ll keep the king safe_ , he could hear his father saying.

Ser Lyn rode back up to the king. Stannis and Ser Richard were laying about at the enemies who had made it through the thinning ranks of Baratheon guards. “Into the forest!” Ser Lyn declared. “It’s the only way we can get out of here. We’ll be trapped or ridden down otherwise.”

“And what sort of a king abandons his men and flees? Robert would have…”

”Robert hid in a…Robert hid till the rest of his army arrived at the Stoney Sept,” Richard Horpe pointed out as he cut down another gold cloak. “You are no good here as a dead king!”

Wordlessly, Stannis followed Ser Lyn as he turned and rode back toward Chales, before cutting into the forest, Ser Richard and Devan following. The gold cloaks seemed caught by surprised; they were still struggling to break through the Baratheon men-at-arms when they realized what was happening. Some of them broke off and directed their horses back into the forest, but the four had a head start, driving their horses forwards as quickly as possible. Devan felt the brambles tearing at his face; he was nowhere near as experienced a rider as the other three, but it seemed like he was no longer even thinking about how to ride as he rode for his life. One gold cloak managed to catch up with them, shouting as he rode across their path, but Lyn Corbray wordlessly cut him down.

At long last – Devan did not know whether it was minutes or hours – the sounds of pursuit had faded. “At last,” Richard Horpe exclaimed as they reached a small brook. Their horses were all close to collapsing, and Richard Horpe was bleeding from a wound in his side.

“We will rest here for a moment,” King Stannis announced, glancing at the wounded knight.

Seeing that the other three were dismounting, Devan hastened to do the same and hold the king’s horse’s reins. He led both horses to the waterside and allowed them to water greedily. He was parched as well, Devan realized. _Greedy beasts_ , he thought as he watched the horses take long laps. He wondered if he could will them to drink faster so he could fill his waterskin as well.

“How could this happen?” Devan heard King Stannis wonder.

“We could not have expected the Lannisters to willingly strip the defenses of King’s Landing further,” Richard Horpe answered as he brought his horse up beside Devan and wearily removed his helm. “It was desperation, and it failed.”

“No, it didn’t.” Richard and Devan looked up in surprise at Lyn Corbray’s words as he approached them, but it was too late. In what seemed an impossibly fast motion, Lyn Corbray drew Lady Forlorn and sliced it across Richard Horpe’s throat. Devan dropped the horses’ reins. But even as he reached for his dagger, Lyn Cobray sliced back up with Lady Forlorn, slashing across Devan’s stomach. The Valyrian steel cut effortlessly through cloth and leather, and Devan fell facedown into the mud.  

 _I’m gutted_ , Devan thought in shock as he reached down with one hand and found a bloody mess spilling out of his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the horses bolting, and Ser Lyn advancing on Stannis.

“Ser Lyn,” the king spoke through gritted teeth. “At last, I see you plain. Traitor, you take another’s coin.”

Lyn Corbray scoffed. “My reward will not be just coin. The Vale.”

“And you think the Lannisters can deliver you the Vale?”

The traitor’s response was a harsh laugh. “Not the Lannisters, but Lord Baelish. He’s already gotten rid of that little brat of an Arryn, and at this moment King Renly’s army will be crossing the Blackwater. Your leaderless army will be brushed aside; there will be no man left to rule the Seven Kingdoms but Renly. And who better to rule the Vale than me, who will be captured valiantly defending your body but will then be won over by King Renly’s generosity? And who will be the Master of Coin again, but the man who delivers King’s Landing to Renly?”

“Is there anything more you have to say to hang you with?”

Lyn Corbray laughed. “I am a better sword than you by far. I’ve killed a prince in battle; it’s time to do the same to a king.” And then he was upon the king, Lady Forlorn clashing with Stannis’ steel. The Valyrian steel moved in a blur – but everything was going blurry, Devan realized. He grasped his dagger and tried to drag himself towards the two dueling swordsmen, only to collapse back into the wet mud. Mud, he thought. His mother had wiped mud off his nose as he stood on their little wharf, about to leave for Dragonstone. He had been scared then, but he’d tried to be brave. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint his parents, who’d been so proud of him…

 _Focus_ , Devan told himself. The two blurry figures were closer now, one of them driving the other back towards the water – and him. Devan moved his fingers till they found his dagger again, and then stabbed upwards at the attacker. But Devan’s strength failed him again, and his dagger slipped from his grasp as it stabbed into a shin. There was a scream from the second man as the attacker’s sword sliced across a leg, and then the attacker turned towards Devan. An armored foot crashing into his face was the last thing Devan saw.

 _I failed you, father. And Shireen_ , Devan Seaworth thought miserably as everything faded. _I couldn’t protect your father, either._


	19. Arya Stark

* * *

**Arya Stark**

* * *

 

_In which death comes tonight_

Arya paced the room again. Thirteen paces by eleven. She’d counted the paces again and again, till she could find her way in the dark. She hadn’t left the room in several weeks, not since the day when Kevan Lannister had arrived at the throne room and stopped Joffrey’s beatings.

Something was different this day, though. She couldn’t see anything out the barred window except the Red Keep, but she could hear. It had been almost imperceptible at first. But as the day passed, Arya realized she could no longer hear merchants hawking their wares. Now it was a rougher undertone that made its way up to her window – shouts and cries of panic and the tramp of soldiers quick-stepping their way through the streets. And far in the distance, every now and then she could hear dull thuds and the blare of trumpets.

_Robb has come_ , Arya thought with a glimmer of something like hope. The Northerners had horns, not trumpets. But Robb had joined with one of King Robert’s brothers, while the other gathered the swords of the south. They had all come, to crush the Lannisters and kill Joffrey.

There was a thump as the door was unbolted, and Arya shivered as it creaked open and she saw who stood in the doorway. It was Ser Arys Oakheart; he had always been the one to bring her to the throne room, at least after the day when Sansa and Ser Mandon disappeared. Had he come to make her scream for Joffrey again?

But then Ser Arys stepped aside, and another man entered the room. It was Kevan Lannister, armed and armored for battle. “Lady Arya,” he said, bowing curtly. When Arya did not respond, he continued, “King’s Landing is under attack. It will fall in a matter of hours.”

_Good_ , Arya thought silently. She didn’t say it aloud. Whenever she’d been defiant, Joffrey had Sansa beaten in her place. And Sansa had been the only reminder of _home_ left in this forsaken place, the only friendly face that hadn’t started to fade behind Joffrey’s leer and the cold faces of the Kingsguard.

“There is no longer any further use for you as a hostage,” Kevan Lannister continued. “I will not have your death be on my hands, though. Ser Arys will escort you to one of the gates that still holds and there surrender you to the victors.”

“Wouldn’t I be safer here?” Arya asked suspiciously, trying to think of what plan the Lannister might have. “You are my enemies, not the attackers.”

Kevan Lannister shook his head. “Your rank and family may very well fail to protect you from a victorious army rampaging through a city. And that is what the attackers will be, once they breech the gates.” He nodded to Ser Arys. “Ser Arys will take you to one of the gates that stands firm, and surrender you there. You will be safe.”

Desmond had also said that he would keep her safe, and Desmond had been a friend. Bile rose in her throat at the thought of Desmond and Harwin and all the others…and father. “I hope that they kill Cersei and Joffrey. And all of you Lannisters.” The words slipped out unbidden, words that she had been unable to say for months. Arya stood still when she finished, fearful of what the Lannister would do to her.

Kevan Lannister looked pained. “I am sorry that it came to all this.” And then he turned on his heel and was gone.

“Come,” Ser Arys said. He nodded to the two Lannister guardsmen behind him, and they stepped forwards and took Arya by each arm. Arya followed silently as Ser Arys led them out the room. She did not look back.

They left the near-empty tower behind and then the Red Keep. Ser Arys was directing their steps westward, which surprised Arya; it seemed to be at the west walls that the fighting was the heaviest, judging by the burning arrows that added to the last rays of the dying sun and the shouts there. But then she realized they were only skirting the edge of Flea Bottom, and then turning north towards the Old Gate.

The streets were emptier than Arya had ever seen. The people were cowering in their homes now, with nowhere to run. Some peered out their doors at the small party, but most had their doors closed and barred. Street after street fell behind as Ser Arys led them onwards.

“I never wanted to beat you,” the knight suddenly said.

“But you did it anyways.” Arya’s eyes narrowed as realization struck her. “You want me to ask my brother not to cut off your head. Why only now?”

“There’s nothing left for me to fight for,” Ser Arys said quietly. “Queen Cersei and her younger children were sent back to the Westerlands last week, and King Joffrey is gone now too, with Lancel Lannister wearing the king’s armor in his place. The victors will have no joy in taking King’s Landing. Ser Kevan only wanted to distract them, to hold the city long enough to allow his family a chance to escape and for what is left of the Lannister armies to rally. That has been accomplished, and now there is nothing left for us but…”

He broke off as a gold cloak officer strode up, a dozen other gold cloaks trailing behind. The officer was tall, with an iron hand strapped to his right wrist. “Ser Jacelyn,” Ser Arys said by way of greeting. “Does the Old Gate still hold?”

“It does. I was just there, gathering up some men to reinforce the Mud Gate. Why are you not with the king?”

“Ser Kevan’s orders; I am to escort Arya Stark to safety.”

“Stark?” one of the gold cloaks spoke up. “The Stark girl?”

“She’s our way to safety,” another gold cloak declared. “If we have her, we can use her to bargain with.” He pointed his spear at Ser Arys. “Hand the girl over quietly and we’ll be on our way.”

Ser Jacelyn turned angrily on his men. “You will allow Ser Arys and the girl on their way!” he declared.

“We’re not dying for the lions tonight. We’re done taking orders from you, too.”

“There’s only one Watch in this city…” The last word was gurgled as another of the gold cloaks stabbed Ser Jacelyn. Arya looked on in horror as Ser Jacelyn sank to his knees and then toppled over. She was so close to safety!

Ser Arys stepped forwards. “Run, girl!” he shouted, glancing back at her. Turning back towards the gold cloaks, the knight unbuckled his white cloak and drew his sword in one smooth motion.

The two Lannister guardsmen looked back and forth between Arya and Ser Arys, trying to determine whom to follow. But Arya took advantage of their confusion to slip out of their grasp, and run. Back the way they had come she ran, before ducking into an alley. She glanced back at Ser Arys, longsword flashing as gold cloaks and red cloaks fell, and then ran for her life.

She ran down that alley and another, before turning back north. The shouting of the gold cloaks soon faded, but Arya did not stop till the Old Gate was in sight. But then she paused, gasping for breath, and ducked behind an abandoned cart.

A mixture of gold cloaks and Lannister guardsmen still held the gate and walls, firing down at an unseen enemy on the far side. The attackers were firing back, too; arrows were whizzing over the walls. Those that didn’t find a target on the wall were burying themselves in the street and houses beneath. Now and again one would find the cart she was crouched behind. To the east and west of the gate, Arya could see the tops of ladders, and hear the clash of steel as the defenders sought to push them back and hold the walls. The lion and stag still flew over the gate itself and a dozen or so men were bracing themselves against the doors, but there was a steady thud against it from the outside. That would be the attackers, trying to batter through the portcullis while braving the fire of the defenders above.

Arya had come to a horrible realization. How was she supposed to persuade the defenders to let her go through? Ser Arys had his white cloak and orders from Ser Kevan; he probably would have been able to tell them to throw the gate open. But the defenders might not even recognize her, and they certainly wouldn’t believe her.

There was only one thing to do. She slipped out of the shadows, hoping that some stray arrow didn’t hit her. The defenders of the gate weren’t looking back her way. She made her way in one of the doors, crouching behind it before she was certain she hadn’t been noticed. A staircase was in front of her, winding its way upwards. Arya picked up a loose stone – it was nothing compared to Needle, snapped on Meryn Trant’s knee, but it was something to keep her fingers from shaking. Step by step, she made her way upwards. At every step she paused and peered around the center of the staircase, but nobody disturbed her. She startled and nearly fell backwards when the wall opened up into a little alcove with an arrow slit, but the archer within was dead, shot through the eye.

It seemed minutes before she reached her destination. She almost let out a sigh of relief. The room had no windows, and was empty. She slipped from the stairway into the room and ran to the capstan – the winch that controlled the chains to the portcullis.

Arya took a deep breath and pushed forwards on one of the arms of the capstan. Nothing happened. She shoved again. The arm moved forwards and then jerked back, catching Arya on the chest and knocking her backwards. _The gate is too heavy_ , she realized. _I was a silly girl to think I could lift it._ But it was too late to think of something else. She braced herself and shoved again.

This time, it moved and stayed. She could hear new shouts outside the gate. “Lift! Lift!” She pushed again, and there was some slack in the chains. The men outside had realized something was happening and were struggling to lift the portcullis, Arya realized. Inch by blessed inch, she was able to push forwards. She could hear the groaning of the chains as the portcullis rose, faster and faster as the men outside were able to gain leverage, and then a steady thump as the battering ram beginning to splinter wood rather than iron.

“Traitor!” Arya’s growing hope was interrupted by a shout. She turned to see a Lannister guardsman in the doorway, sword dripping red. The guardsman started at seeing Arya, before advancing into the room. “Why, you treacherous little urchin…”

Arya picked up her stone and chucked it at the guardsman’s head, then dashed for the door. But the man ducked and placed himself in Arya’s path. “I don’t think so,” he snarled, slashing at her. She tried feinting to her left and running to the right, but again steel flashed. This time she barely ducked in time. The guardsman took a step forwards, then another; she stepped backwards. Glancing behind, Arya saw she was almost up against the wall. “Let me go,” she said desperately. “My br…” She cut herself short. If she told him who she was, the guardsman would probably only use her as a hostage, like those gold cloaks had wanted to do. “Those men out there might let you live if you let me go.”

The guardsman scoffed. “They’ll kill me anyways. This is for all my friends who’ve died today.” And then he was slicing downwards. Arya dodged that, then tried to scamper past him on all fours, only to be kicked on the side of the head and fall forwards, sprawled out on the cold stone. She rolled over to avoid the next strike, only to realize she had hit the wall. _The lone wolf dies while the pack survives_ , Arya thought helplessly, _and I was a lone wolf_.

But the death stroke never came. Arya slowly pushed herself to her feet, her ears ringing, and realized another man had entered the room. This man looked to be a knight, dressed in armor, with a sigil of a brown deer slung on a pole. And he was attacking the Lannister guardsman. The latter was a good swordsman, but the new arrival was better. A few strokes, and the guardsman was disarmed and on his knees.

“Who are you?” the knight demanded, his sword at the guardsman’s throat.

“Lester,” the guardsman gasped.

“Lester?”

“Just Lester.”

“Oh, bugger.” And with that the knight slit Lester’s throat, before turning to Arya. “You’re a plucky little lad…er, girl?” He stared at Arya, before shrugging and muttering something to himself. “You have my thanks. When the battle is over, ask for Ser Hyle Hunt, and I’ll make sure you receive a bag of silver from the king. Just be sure to tell him how I saved you, eh?”

 “Please, ser,” Arya managed to gasp. “I’m Arya Stark. Please take me to my brother.”

The knight was already turning away. “Certainly…wait, who did you say you were?”

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and sister to Lord Robb Stark. Please take me to my brother.”

The knight’s mouth opened and closed silently. “Lady Arya,” he finally exclaimed. “Well, I’ll see you safe to King Renly. And then if you are who you say you are, he’ll decide about returning you to your family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stannis' fate will be revealed in the next chapter.


	20. Davos Seaworth

 

* * *

  **DAVOS SEAWORTH**

* * *

 

_In which Proudwing lives on_

 

The smoke of a thousand campfires hung heavy over the Baratheon camp outside Rosby, with barely a breeze from Blackwater Bay to dissipate it.

It seemed to fit the mood of the camp, Davos thought as he was rowed ashore from the _Black Betha_. The last time he had seen the army, at Gulltown, it had been an eager beast, humming with life and anticipation. Now it was a weary, dispirited army; from what Davos had heard, they had been driven away from the very walls of King’s Landing by Renly’s host. Many of the banners were different, too. At Gulltown, Grafton and Hunter banners had been prominent; now, it was Bolton and Arryn banners that seemed most common.

Regardless of sigil, the men Davos passed seemed downcast. “How long will this host stay loyal, while Renly sits the Iron Throne?” Davos’ companion wondered.

“We must hope they hold firm to their oaths to King Stannis, Ser Justin,” Davos said, a bit sharply. The blonde knight had been far more tolerable while lying wounded in the _Black Betha_ ’s sick berth. But Davos had to admit that Ser Justin was probably right.

At last the two reached the tent beneath the largest banner of all, a sheet of beaten gold with a prancing stag. Two knights were standing guard by the door of the tent. To Davos’ surprise, they were wearing white cloaks that marked them as kingsguard, though their armor did not match.

“Davos Seaworth and Justin Massey, to see the king on vital business,” Justin Massey loudly declared.

“His grace is not seeing visitors,” the nearer of the two knights declared. Davos started; he recognized that expressionless voice…

“Ser Mandon?” Davos asked, leaning closer and seeing that the knight indeed had the dead fish eyes of the veteran kingsguard.

“His grace is not seeing visitors,” Ser Mandon repeated, continuing to stare straight ahead past Davos.

There was a harrumph from inside the tent. “Ser Mandon, let them in.”

Ser Mandon took one step to his left, away from the entrance to the tent, and did not say another word. Glancing at Justin, who shrugged, Davos slipped underneath the flap and entered the royal tent.

“Your grace…” Davos trailed off. Stannis was lying in bed, his face drawn and pale. And his right leg was gone, from above the knee down.

“There’s not so much left of him,” Stannis said wryly. The frown returned to the king’s face. “Yet here I am, and I owe that much to your son, Ser Davos.”

“Devan…” _Mother above_ , Davos thought as he looked wildly around the room. A squire stood in a corner, but not one that Davos recognized. “Is he…” From Stannis’ face, he needed no further confirmation. “Tell me what happened.”

“Ser Lyn Corbray was a traitor. I had gone to accept the surrender of a castle some leagues away from King’s Landing when we were ambushed by some gold cloaks and sellswords. We escaped from those, but when we were alone Ser Lyn showed his true colors. He slew Ser Richard Horpe and wounded your Devan before turning on me. I was near death when Devan stabbed Ser Lyn in the leg and distracted him long enough for me to kill the traitor. Some of Lord Bolton’s men were able to find me before I bled to death, but it was too late for Devan already. He is buried outside King’s Landing; Renly’s whole army was upon us and Lord Bolton’s counterattacks were being beaten back. He and Lord Royce decided to retreat from the city rather than risk being caught between Renly and the walls of King’s Landing.”

“And who was Lyn Corbray’s real master?”

“He was taking Lord Baelish’s coin, and Baelish serves Renly now.” The last name was near spat. “If you wish to return to your family to mourn…”

“Excuse me, your grace.” Davos pushed past the startled Justin Massey, out the tent, past the immovable mass of Mandon Moore. The air was heavy and stank of shit, but he breathed it in hard anyways. Devan, little Devan.

Devan had been the first child Marya had borne him at Cape Wrath. Unlike his older brothers, Devan had never known Flea Bottom. His whole life had been one that Davos’ onions and fingers had bought, a better life. Davos remembered how proud they had all been when Stannis agreed to take Devan as a squire, how proud he’d been to see the son of a smuggler in Baratheon livery. _How will I tell Marya_ , Davos wondered. _I rose too high, and now the sun takes its vengeance._ But not on him, but on an innocent.

For a mad moment he hated the fact that Devan had ever been chosen as a squire by Stannis. Could Devan still be safe at Cape Wrath if his father had not chosen to serve Stannis? But Davos collected himself. Stannis had honored them both, and another man had taken it all away. Lyn Corbray had wielded the blade, but if it was Baelish and Renly who had been truly responsible…Davos had never actually spoken with the Master of Coin, only seen him from afar. Stannis despised him as a man without convictions or loyalty, and Davos had shared that sentiment. But never had Davos expected it to strike home so hard. And Renly…bile rose in Davos’ throat. I saved Renly once, Davos remembered, thinking of the boy at Storm’s End who could barely even cry because he was so weak.

_I will have vengeance for Devan_ , Davos whispered to the skies. One day, if the gods were just, he would find Baelish or Renly, and he would bring an end to them.

In the meantime, he directed his steps back towards Stannis’ tent. _There is only one true king in Westeros, and his enemies are mine as well._

>>> 

“Would that all men were so loyal,” Stannis said when Davos hold him that later, as they were again closeted with Justin Massey.

“Are men deserting for Renly?” Justin Massey asked.

“Not many, not yet. That will change when Renly marches from King’s Landing in pursuit, as he must. There is no defensible ground here besides Rosby itself, so I must withdraw. I must hope that the Riverlords answer my call as I answered theirs, and that my army does not melt away during the retreat. All this because of Renly.” Stannis near spat the name. “Robert could inspire loyalty from men who had fought him a fortnight previous. Yet there was no doubting that there was greatness in Robert, however much it rotted with all his court. Renly has done naught but take a defenseless city after _my men_ bled to leave it so defenseless, and yet traitors will leave for him all the same. They will mock me for a cripple and lay their swords before Renly, dreams of power and glory in their heads. And yet can I entirely blame them? Renly will ride at the head of his armies, a shiny imitation of Robert, while I will never be able to mount a horse again. They will leave me, they will abandon their duty…for another hawk, one that is not crippled.”

“That does not make you any less of a king…my king,” Davos protested. “You didn’t have to stand when you made me a knight, or took my fingers. When you gave me justice and raised me up. You didn’t have to stand when you gave dragonseeds the same audience and justice that a Velaryon would receive. I never thought of you as a great warrior, but as a just lord. And I know you can be a just king.”

“And yet it is at war that I must succeed, first. Speak, Ser Davos. Do you have any wise words on how that might be done? Lord Royce would have us retreat back behind the Bloody Gate. Lord Bolton thinks that too cautious, and advises stopping at the Trident. Lord Velaryon and Ser Brynden wish for me stand and fight.”

Davos shrugged. “I’m not a fighting man, your grace. But it seems to me that perhaps you are looking too close for help. You could speak to the Dornish, or the Westerlanders…”

Stannis’ teeth clenched tighter. “I will not treat with that incestuous…lady and her spawn. And the Northerners and Riverlanders will not stand for it.”

“Not Cersei Lannister, but the Westerlords…many of whom, or their sons, you hold captive. It is no fault of theirs that the Lannisters have led them into rebellion and disaster. They will have no greater love for Renly; perhaps they could be brought to reason with the promise of the freedom of their lords.”

Stannis nodded slowly, tapping his fingers on his bedside. “Perhaps there is merit there. Your advice has resolved me on another matter as well. Ser Davos, Ser Justin, you are to return to the Stormlands.”

“Your grace,” Justin Massey exclaimed, “We will never be able to raise the Stormlords again. Brus Buckler and Narbert Grandison are both dead at Storm’s End and their army near destroyed. I was barely able to escape with my own life. Lord Ralph Buckler has thrown himself at Cortnay Penrose’s mercy. The rebellion in the Stormlands has been crushed.”

“The Western lords know they are enemies to all of Westeros,” Davos concurred. “The Stormlords are already committed to Renly, and as of now they have no reason to leave that allegiance. They’re winning, your grace.”

Justin Massey tried another tack. “Our place is at your side. If we had been with you instead of that vile traitor Lyn Corbray…”

“Your place is where I say it is. Much as I think it a waste of good men, I have a Kingsguard to guard me now. Sers Mandon Moore, Robar Royce, Andrew Tollett, and Donnel Locke, at present. My cousin Ser Andrew Estermont will be Lord Commander when he has escorted my wife and daughter safely away from Dragonstone. They are all far better swords than either of you. But you have a glib tongue and pleasing manner, Ser Justin. And Ser Davos, you know the smallfolk well. It is not to the great lords I am sending you. As you say, they have pledged themselves to Renly. Caron, Selmy, Swann, Penrose, Tarth. They have turned their backs on their rightful king, and I have marked them for what they are – schemers, and flatterers, and traitors. The maesters say that these families have existed from time immemorial. Too long they have sat secure in their castles, knowing that their names will not be displaced no matter who wins. Twice they have rejected my call, first when Robert died and again when you arrived. I will not brook a third time. You are to proclaim this throughout the Stormlands, and I will have word sent to Renly’s host as well: their lords have two months to pledge themselves to my service or be attainted. After that, I will have new lords. If any who currently serve those obstinate lords will pledge themselves to me and are of especial service, then they shall be rewarded with lands and titles from those who have forfeited them. It can be younger sons and cousins, or men-at-arms, or any highborn or lowborn; aye, even a peasant.”

“This will only harden the resolve of the Stormlords,” Davos warned. He glanced at Ser Justin for support, but the other knight seemed obscenely gleeful. “And what if Renly declares the same thing,” Davos continued, “for the Riverlands or Vale?”

“Anybody who joins Renly would do so regardless,” Justin Massey declared, “if they are willing to forget their oaths and that King Stannis came to their aid against the Lannisters. But if we appeal not only to loyalty and gratitude, but to ambition…”

“They owe their loyalty to me regardless,” Stannis said sharply. “Most of my lords have already advised me against it – all except Lord Bolton, for some reason – but I am resolved on this course. Go back to the Stormlands, and do what you can to rally support. Also, attack the food going to Renly’s army and give it back to the smallfolk. Renly serves the interests of the Tyrells, not of the Stormlands; remind them of that. Every man that Renly must send to secure the Stormlands is one fewer man he can muster against my main army.”

“And where will your grace be?”

“Preparing to face Renly, somewhere north of here. I have sent messengers to Robb Stark to hold to his oath and join me with his cavalry, and to the scattered Riverlanders as well.”

Justin Massey seemed unconvinced. “Even with their strength, Renly will still outnumber you. As far as I can see, you have no advantage.”

“I have one. Renly has no fleet. The Redwyne fleet may be free to sail now if the Redwyne twins are no longer the Lannisters’ prisoners, but I still control the seas for the nonce.”

“You mean to take ship and attack King’s Landing when Renly marches north?”

“No, Ser Justin. Renly might be so foolish as to leave the city poorly defended, but not Lord Tarly. It is on land that I must face them, yet I mean to have the support of the fleet. It will be along the coast that I will make my stand.”

“You do not have…”

“We shall see, Ser Justin. Come the battle, we shall see.”


	21. Rolland Storm

 

* * *

  **ROLLAND STORM**

* * *

 

_In which there is storm, waters, and stone_

 

“Why are we doing this?” Gendry grumbled for the dozenth time. “Couldn’t they just have taken a rowboat away from Dragonstone?”

“Have you ever tried rowing from Dragonstone to the mainland?” Rolland shot back. “You’d still be rowing.”

“Didn’t have a boat jus’ laying about for pleasure trips,” the young smith muttered, kicking a stone down the quay. Rolland did not press the point. Trying to determine the purpose and destination of each sailing ship that had passed through the harbor of Rook’s Rest a month previously was probably not what the boy had expected a rescue mission to entail.

But this had to work, Rolland told himself. It _had_ to have been a sailing ship or galley that Robert Arryn’s kidnappers had escaped in; otherwise, they’d have been picked up by a pursuing royal ship. And that ship _had_ to have come from nearby – here at Rook’s Rest on Blackwater Bay, or Cracklaw Point, or Massey’s Hook. How else could they have alerted exactly when to be waiting off Dragonstone without lingering and attracting suspicion?

Where the ship would have gone afterwards was anybody’s guess. Rolland did not think King’s Landing – there were too many royal ships maintaining the blockade there, and that was the first direction the fleet had pursued. But if he and Gendry could find a fast ship that had left at the right time, with strange passengers or cargo, and then persuade some of its crew to talk, either with silver or steel…then there was a chance of tracking down where young Robert had gone. Deep down, Rolland knew it was a fool’s hope. When had he become so foolish? He banished those thoughts. It _had_ to work. And so they trudged from ship to ship, tavern to tavern, listening and asking.

Gendry was in an increasingly foul mood that morning, and by lunch Rolland had had enough. “If you wish to return to King’s Landing, I expect King Stannis will have taken it by now. I can find you a ride with some merchant on his way south.”

Gendry stabbed his knife harder into his chunk of hard cheese. “You want to be rid of me, too,” the smith said accusingly. “I thought you were different. You’re no different than all the others. Tobho Mott, Yoren, Stannis, selling and buying me ‘cause you don’t have any more use for me.”

 That stung a little, though Rolland would not show it. “I wish to protect you, but do you wish to help me or not?”

“It’s not protecting I want. Teach me how to fight.” The words seemed to spill out of Gendry now. “I know how to use a hammer and I’m strong. They say King Robert fought with a hammer. Show me how and so can I.”

“And why should I teach you, and not some master-of-arms in King’s Landing?”

“How exactly are you reckoning on rescuing your lordling with that?” Gendry asked, motioning at Rolland’s once-broken arm. It was no longer in a sling, but still hung limply at his side. “Going to talk his captors into giving him back to you? I can be of use to you then.”

Rolland sighed. He took a last bite of cheese and hardtack and then stood up. “Very well. Pick up that rucksack and run to the end of the clearing and back.”

Gendry stared blankly at him.

“You wanted to learn to fight, didn’t you? Well, if you’re fighting with a hammer, you’d better to able to swing it for an hour and still be able to lift it. It won’t be Tobho Mott hurrying you along; if you have to stop to lower your weapon and catch your breath in battle, somebody will bash your head in. Now, are you going to run or not?”

Gendry ran.

They spent that afternoon training; by the end rivulets of sweat were dripping down both their backs and Gendry could barely lift his arms, but the lad had a smile on his face. And Rolland had to admit that the familiar work had made him much more cheerful, too.

That evening, they directed their way back into the town of Rook’s Rest, below the Stantons’ castle, to find a tavern. Visiting taverns drained his bag of silver stags faster than Rolland liked, but the sailors from the nearby docks were far likelier to share information after a few pints of ale and with a warm meal in their bellies.

“Steak and kidney pie,” Rolland called to the serving girl as they entered the _Sunfyre’s Rest_ and he looked around for an empty spot, finally settling on a table occupied by a solitary man with greying hair whose back was to the door. “Good evening to you, good ser…” Rolland started to say as he settled into the seat next to the old man, before he recognized the man. “Septon? You’re a long way from Gulltown.”

“And you are a long way from your king’s army, Ser Rolland.” The septon cast an appraising look upon Rolland, nodding sympathetically at the way his arm hung, before turning to Gendry, who was swinging their bags under the table and then draping himself over a chair. “And this lad is?”

“Gendry Waters. He is…my squire. Gendry, I met this septon in Gulltown before we sailed for the Riverlands. He was a knight once, before his leg was injured and he became a septon. I don’t believe you ever told me your name, Septon…”

“Ignace.”

“Septon Ignace. What brings you from Gulltown to Rook’s Rest?”

The septon took a sip of his ale. “It is a long tale, Ser Rolland, and I fear you may not have the patience for it.”

“I am a patient man, septon.” Rolland thought for a moment of Sweetrobin.

“As you wish, then. It is to King’s Landing that I direct my steps – and how many steps that is! I had taken passage on a ship from Gulltown, but the captain would sail no further than here because of the war. I will continue regardless; if the Seven wish it, this cruel war will be over by the time I have reached King’s Landing.”

“And your business in King’s Landing?”

“A suggestion, a glimmer of an idea. When you were a child living in the Stormlands, Ser Rolland, where was your septon originally from?”

Rolland had to stop and think. Septon Pate had been such a fixture in his village that he could not imagine a time when Pate had not been a septon. “I think from the same village where I was born,” he said slowly.

Septon Ignace nodded slowly. “I think you will find the same throughout most of the Seven Kingdoms. If a young man in a poor village feels the calling to the faith, he will most likely go to the septon in his village to be trained and take his vows. And there he will remain for the rest of his life, hoping that in time another will feel the call to help assist him in his labors. Or if he feels the lust for travel, then perhaps he will leave the town he has known his whole life and set out with a few stags in his purse to minister to the countryside. He may be fortunate enough to find a septon in a castle willing to take him in and teach him. But those who can afford to do so are usually those who have the least dedication to their calling. Ironic, is it not, Ser Rolland? It pains every time I have to turn away a young man, burning with fervor for the Faith and eager to learn. And he will certainly not find a welcome at the Starry Sept or the Great Sept. Those do not have a place amongst themselves for any but the rich and the connected. Doubtless you know of how our current High Septon was selected. And the next? Septon Ollidor, the son of a King’s Landing merchant? Or Septon Luceon, a son of Walder Frey? They will say that any outside their ranks does not know the faith well enough. How can he, when they refuse to teach it? Or perhaps it is fervor that they fear, a reminder of what they should be. And so the faith of the people declines as their shepherds stray further and further from the light of truth. The wicked prosper, and those with fervor are shunned and far too often have but a bare knowledge of the faith themselves to share.”

“You spoke of an idea, septon.”

“Forgive an old man’s ramblings, Ser Rolland. When you have seen as many winters as me, time takes another meaning. But yes, I have an idea – for a great school in King’s Landing, where young men from across the Seven Kingdoms who wish could be brought to learn their letters, to study the Seven-Pointed Star, to be formed in their faith. They would be admitted with no regards for their birth or ability to pay, and then sent back to their homes as better shepherds. I can guess what you are thinking, Ser Rolland. How would such an endeavor be funded? It for that purpose that I direct my steps to King’s Landing. I went there once, when Robert was king, to ask for royal patronage and protection for this endeavor. I had heard much of Robert’s generosity, but he had no inclination to listen to my petitions. I was directed to his master of coin, and a blacker heart I have never seen than in that man. In the end I was left on the street, ignored and penniless as those I sought to aid. I found my way back to Gulltown, but the idea has not died. There will be a new king when I arrive at King’s Landing, and perhaps peace. And perhaps that new king will listen.”

“King Stannis does not keep to the Seven, septon. And if by some chance Renly holds the city, I doubt you will receive a warmer welcome than from Robert. I fear your endeavor is doomed to fail, no matter how much I might wish otherwise.”

Septon Ignace nodded slowly. “I have never met Stannis, but I have heard he is a man of duty. Perhaps he can be convinced to truly be a Protector of the Faith. Or perhaps you are right, and it is a fool’s hope. Yet it would be a fool not to try.” Rolland could not help but think of Sweetrobin, and nod. “I do not have much else than this grand idea to live for,” Septon Ignace continued. “Yet you have a long life ahead of you. What takes you away from the warrior’s life that you love so much?”

“Lord Robert Arryn. You may have heard that he was kidnapped from Dragonstone a month past. I am trying to find and rescue him,” Rolland replied quietly. “I was given the duty of looking after him; I am duty-bound to try to find him,” he added quickly. “I think that he was taken away on a ship that sailed from a port near Dragonstone, such as here at Rook’s Rest.”

The septon nodded slowly; thankfully, he did not press Rolland about his concern for Sweetrobin. “It is curious,” Septon Ignace said. “There was a young woman who had the same mission as you. I told her it was not safe for her to be travelling by herself in these troubled times, but she has a stubborn heart and would not listen.”

Rolland was not sure what to think. He had thought that Stannis might send other agents to look for Sweetrobin, but Stannis would probably sooner send a pirate than a woman. “Where is she?”

“There, at the far table.”

Rolland glanced quickly over at there the septon indicated. He took in a wiry young woman with black hair cropped short, wearing riding leathers and a light shirt of silvered ringmail. Rolland guessed she was in her cups, judging by the number of empty mugs scattered around her. “Many thanks, Septon Ignace. May the Seven look favorably upon your endeavors.” Rolland turned to Gendry, who had been listening intently to the septon. “Approach her from the opposite side as me. We’re going to have a talk with her and find out who she is and why she’s here too,” he whispered. He got to his feet and headed towards the young woman, Gendry trailing behind.

He cleared his throat when he and Gendry were on either side of the young woman’s chair, wondering what to say. But when the young woman looked up and saw them looming over her, she jumped to her feet and, far faster than Rolland thought possible, had a knife at Gendry’s throat. “What do you lot want?” she demanded, breathing heavily.

Rolland shot Gendry an annoyed look. “You just said we were going to talk,” Gendry said back grumpily. Gendry stood over a head taller than the woman; he would probably be safe if it came to a fight, Rolland concluded.

But the whole tavern was watching with interest now, Rolland noticed with annoyance. He unbuckled his sword and set it down, then took a step forwards with his hands outspread. “We just want to talk,” he said. “Let my companion go.”

“Tell me what your business is.”

“We are looking for the same person as you, to bring him safely back to Dragonstone. We want to know why _you_ are looking for him.”

The woman’s arm relaxed for a moment, before coming back up. “And why should I trust you?”

“I was his guardian on Dragonstone. If you know him, you will know that his nose is always runny in the morning and he swipes at it with the back of his hand. Who are you, and who do you serve?”

“Mya Stone. I serve…King Stannis, I suppose. I want to rescue Robert Arryn too.”

Rolland paused for a moment, trying to remember where he had heard the name. “You served at the Eyrie,” he said at last. “Ser Vardis Egen speaks highly of you.”

“What, and you believe me?”

“I do. Kindly unhand your little brother.”

“Very well. Er…little brother?”

They talked long into the night, as the rest of the tavern lost interest in them. Septon Ignace helped, steering some of the more curious ones away, before retiring to his room.

Mya told Rolland and Gendry that Lysa Arryn had dismissed all but a handful of servants especially loyal to her at the Eyrie. Mad was the name that was being used for Lysa now, mad and paranoid about disloyalty and about villains that had taken Sweetrobin away from her and were coming for her too. Lysa had not even been seen for weeks; she was shut up in her rooms in the Eyrie and took her meals through a locked door. Mya had been one of those dismissed. Lord Nestor Royce had offered her continued employment at the Gates of the Moon, and she had accepted till she heard two pieces of news – that Robert Arryn had disappeared, and that Mychel Redfort had been betrothed to Ysilla Royce.

“Mychel was going to marry me,” she sniffed. “But he didn’t send me a word about this betrothal. I suppose Lord Redfort wouldn’t allow it. I decided I’d try to find Lord Arryn and prove I was worthy of Mychel.”

“Lord Horton Redfort is dead. Mychel arranged that betrothal with Lord Yohn Royce of his own accord.” Rolland had thought to try to speak gently, and realized that he had failed as Mya recoiled.

“He never really meant to marry me then,” she said, realization quickly sinking in. “He was taking advantage of me all these years.”

“He’s not worth trying to prove yourself to,” Rolland declared. “One bastard to another, your worth doesn’t depend one tinker’s curse on him.”

Mya sat quietly there, head bowed over her wine. Rolland did not say anything, to allow her space, and he motioned to Gendry to do the same. At last she lifted her head, and quaffed the last of the wine. “Where are you staying?”

“Huh?”

“You know what? I’m not going to let that bastard guide my life. I’m going with you regardless to find Robert Arryn. More wine!”


	22. Results of Battle of King's Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little wiki box with the results of the Battle of King's Landing. There's a few Easter eggs in there.


	23. Arya Stark

 

* * *

  **ARYA STARK**

* * *

 

_Daughter to a murdered father, sister to a tortured girl, friend to a murdered household_

 

It took time for the realization to set in that she wasn’t going home. Ser Hyle Hunt had taken her out of the city – past the long columns of armored men, shouting for blood and spoils, streaming into the city; past the Lannister pennants being trampled into the mud; past the heads of goldcloaks and redcloaks on pikes – and to a hastily-erected tent, where she fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the ground.

It seemed barely a moment later when Ser Hyle was shaking her awake. She was still groggy as he helped her onto a horse and led her back into the city and to the Red Keep. If she was fully awake she would perhaps have questioned the lack of Northern banners, or the dozen riders that surrounded her all the way to the Red Keep, and the guards who remained outside the rooms to which they brought her. She was told to stay there until King Renly was ready to see her, and when the door closed she knew.

Her new guards were far more willing to talk, at least, unlike the stony silence from the Lannister redcloaks and the Kingsguard. She heard of how King Renly’s army had crossed the Blackwater Rush on a fleet of barges far upstream; of how Loras Tyrell’s vanguard had driven Lord Stannis’ besieging army away from the city and nearly captured the pretender king himself; of how they had immediately taken the city by storm, only to find it deserted by the cowardly Lannister royal family; and of how the army was eager to ride out again and finally smash Lord Stannis’ host.

It was so maddening. She had heard that Robb and King Robert’s brothers were on their way to defeat the Lannisters and rescue her. They had come, alright, but now King Robert’s brothers were fighting each other, and Robb was on the side of the one who hadn’t taken the city. The guards said they were watching her for her own protection, and the rooms were much nicer than those the Lannisters had kept her in, but knew that she was still a captive, and why. Joffrey and Cersei were still alive, and all that the Lannisters’ enemies could think of was killing each other.

It was almost as if nobody cared about Ned Stark any more, or Desmond and all the other brave men. _But_ _I’ll remember them_ , Arya told herself. _Even Septa Mordane._ Remembering them had served as a bit of hope through Joffrey’s beatings, as a reminder that there was a world outside her cage and Joffrey’s beatings. And once again, this sustained her.

* * *

Arya had been told that she would be brought to see King Renly to find out what would be done with her. But when Ser Hyle came again, a few days after the battle, it was not to bring her to the throne room. Rather, he carried an invitation to sup with the newly-arrived queen and queen’s grandmother.

She thought of asking if the invitation was actually an invitation or an order, but she held her tongue. Of course it was an order. And while she didn’t think the Tyrells would beat her as Joffrey had, she was not going to risk their wrath. So she put on the dress that was set out for her, and followed Ser Hyle to the Maidenvault.

A lady who Ser Hyle announced as Queen Margaery herself came sweeping down the stairs to greet her at the doors of the Maidenvault. “Lady Arya,” she called, “I’m so pleased you came. Be welcome.”

Arya managed to kneel clumsily. “Your grace.” She tried to think of what Lady Catelyn would say. “Winterfell is y…I thank you, your grace.”

Margaery gave no indication that she noticed Arya’s mistake. “Won’t you call me Margaery? Please, rise. Ser Hyle, help the Lady Arya to her feet. Might I call you Arya?”

“If it please you.” Margaery was trying to be kind, Arya thought as she followed the queen up the stairs. But Joffrey had acted kind too, at first. _I won’t be fooled like Sansa was_ , Arya told herself.

Close by a merrily-blazing hearth, a wizened old lady sat at the head of a table. Margaery introduced her as her grandmother, the Lady Olenna. “Forgive my royal husband for not being able to give audience to you,” Margaery continued. “He has a great many duties. He sends his regards though, and wishes me to tell you that the men sing of your bravery in helping open the Old Gate.”

“There’s songs about that?” Arya asked, surprised.

Queen Margaery laughed lightly. “Yes; we could bring a minstrel to sing them for you, if you’d like.”

A scoff came from Lady Olenna. “Of course there’s songs about it. They had to write songs about something. My grandson Loras swore that he would remove King Joffrey’s head himself, but when he and Renly came storming into the throne room, all they found was a cat, that some wag had thought to dress in Lannister colors, curled on the Iron Throne.”

“What happened to the cat?” Arya asked. She remembered the Red Keep had been full of cats; a gold cloak had told her once that one of them, a black old devil of a tomcat, was the real king of the castle.

“Oh, they killed the cat. Renly had promised all his men blood and glory. And when there was no Lannisters to kill but Kevan and his fop of a son, they had to find their sport elsewhere. The whole city reeks of dead goldcloaks. Not exactly the thing of which songs are written.”

“Kevan was…kind. He wanted Ser Arys to take me to safety,” Arya admitted. “And he stopped Joffrey from beating me.”

“Ser Kevan died with honor, a sword in his hand. What you say about beatings…we had heard rumors about that,” Margaery said. “So it is true that Joffrey would have you beaten every day?”

“Me and Sansa. He would have one of us beaten, and wouldn’t stop till we cried for mercy. Sansa…” Arya swallowed at the memory of her sister’s tear-stained face. Joffrey never allowed them to speak together. “Is she safe?” she blurted out.

“She is safe at Riverrun with your mother.”

“And Robb?”

A glance passed between the two older women. “He won a great victory over Jaime Lannister near Riverrun,” Margaery said. “He is also safe and you shall be reunited with him once he bends the knee to King Renly.”

“So I’m a hostage, then.”

Lady Olenna sighed. “I will be honest with you, child. Your brother has sworn allegiance to Lord Stannis, King Renly’s older brother, as king. So should have Renly and my son, if they had any sense. It’s treason, I warned them, Robert has two sons, and Renly has an older brother, how can he possibly have any claim to that ugly iron chair? Tut-tut, says my son, don’t you want your sweetling to be queen? You Starks were kings once, the Arryns and the Lannisters as well, and even the Baratheons through the female line, but the Tyrells were no more than stewards until Aegon the Dragon came along and cooked the rightful King of the Reach on the Field of Fire. If truth be told, even our claim to Highgarden is a bit dodgy, just as those dreadful Florents are always whining. ‘What does it matter?’ you ask, and of course it doesn’t, except to oafs like my son. The thought that one day he may see his grandson with his arse on the iron Throne makes Mace puff up like... now, what do you call it? Margaery, you’re clever, be a dear and tell your poor old half-daft grandmother the name of that queer fish from the Summer Isles that puffs up to ten times its own size when you poke it.”

“They call them puff fish, Grandmother.”

“Of course they do. Summer Islanders have no imagination. My son ought to take the puff fish for his sigil, if truth be told. He could put a crown on it, the way the Baratheons do their stag, mayhap that would make him happy. We should have stayed well out of all this bloody foolishness if you ask me, but once the cow’s been milked there’s no squirting the cream back up her udder. After Lord Puff Fish put that crown on Renly’s head, we were into the pudding up to our knees, so here we are to see things through. And so Renly insists on keeping you here till Lord Robb bends the knee. Foolishness as well, I told him. Tell me, child, would your brother Robb break his oath to Stannis to get you back?”

Arya had decided she liked Olenna Tyrell much more than Queen Margaery. And so she thought, and answered honestly. Robb loved her, she knew. But… “My father died for loyalty,” Arya said at last. And Robb had always tried to be like father.

Lady Olenna sighed, as if deep in thought, before leaned over and placed her wrinkled hand over Arya’s. “I know what you’re thinking, child. You think that we’re just as bad as the Lannisters in keeping you here. If I had my way, you would be on your way. But the menfolk will play their games.”

“We would never think of treating you as the Lannisters did,” Queen Margaery continued. “Until this dreadful affair is over, you shall be our honored guest. There will be singers and dancers, and we can go riding and hawking. Do you hawk, Arya?”

Arya’s face had been getting longer and longer as Margaery went on. Lady Olenna peered over the top of her fan at Arya. “You don’t think highly of these entertainments, do you, child?” she asked.

“I think most of them are stupid. Well, I enjoy riding. And horses.”

Margaery laughed. “Well, if you like animals and you like riding, then you are halfway to enjoying hawking.”

“Did nobody ever think to tell you that?” Lady Olenna grumbled. “Well, we have much to teach you.”

She was invited back to sup the next day, and the next. To her surprise, Arya found that she rather enjoyed the time with the two women, and especially approval from Lady Olenna. Ser Hyle’s arrival certainly wasn’t dreaded as the Kingsguard arriving to bring her to Joffrey. But the following day, Ser Hyle arrived in the middle of the day rather than the evening. And he carried no invitation, only a wide smile.

“I’ve been sent to bring you to the throne room. King Renly wants you immediately,” Ser Hyle declared. When Arya paused, memories of the beatings there coming back to mind, the knight quickly added, “King Joffrey has been captured!”

That made Arya hurry to get ready and follow Ser Hyle. The knight provided her with the details as they hastened to the throne room. “It seems that Joffrey, his pet dog, and a few guards were trying to escape incognito back to the Westerlands, staying at small inns and barns. But he got into an argument with one of the families that they were staying with and, in his fury, declared that he was the king. The Hound killed most of the family, but a boy escaped and alerted one of our patrols. We caught up with him a couple days ago; the Hound put up a stiff fight, but we prevailed and Joffrey is being brought into the city in chains now.”

“The Hound?” Arya asked, thinking of poor Mycah.

“Dead with the rest of the boy king’s company. Ah, here we are.”

They had arrived at the throne room and slowly made their way through the crowd of people surrounding the center of the room. Even though he did not sit on the throne, there was no mistaking who was King Renly. The slender gold circlet on his head and the golden crowned stag on his green tunic was one giveaway. How the courtiers and knights in the room seemed to orbit around him, as if he was a lamp and they were seeking a reflection of his light, was another. A kind word here, a compliment there – they all hung on to every moment. A fat lord and a weedy man in fine clothes were at the front of the press. Arya remembered having seen the weedy man before, but most of the rest were strangers. There was a large squire with a striding huntsman on his tunic who she caught staring at her. When she thought nobody else was looking, she stuck out her tongue at him, and the squire almost laughed before turning away. Queen Margaery was there by King Renly as well, and the Lady Olenna.

Ser Hyle and Arya at last made their way to the center of the room, and King Renly turned to face them at the knight’s greeting. “Lady Arya. I was sorry to hear of your father’s loss. I am sure that he would have supported my cause, had the Lannisters not murdered him first.” A murmur of approval and agreement passed through the crowd. “Ser Hyle has told us of how you aided him in taking the Old Gate…” Ser Hyle preened. “And we have also heard of what you have suffered at the hands of the Lannisters. We salute your courage, Lady Arya, and it shall be rewarded a hundredfold.”

“Can I go home then…your majesty?”

“Soon. But it is another reward I had in mind.” Renly turned to the crowd. “I shall give the Starks what my brother has not been able to. Justice!”

“Justice,” the crowd echoed, some with more certainty than others.

“Do you wish to see Joffrey dead, Lady Arya?”

“I do.”

“And so you shall.” Renly motioned to one of his men-at-arms, and the crowd parted as he stepped forwards bearing a greatsword. _Ice_ , Arya thought with a start. The last time she had seen it, it had been in the hands of her father. It had lost none of its dark and smoky appearance; nor, judging by how gingerly its bearer held it, had it lost its sharp edge. “I would like you to be the one to take Joffrey’s head, with your father’s sword.”

Arya’s heart almost stopped. _Justice_ , she thought. She had suffered for so long from Joffrey without being able to do anything but scream. But here was justice, within her grasp. Here was _power_ , power over Joffrey’s life when she had been so powerless before. She nodded mutely.

“Have you gone mad?” Lady Olenna whispered to Renly. “That beastly sword is twice her height. Do you think she will really be able to do anything but cudgel Joffrey’s head with it?”

Renly waved his hand dismissively. “The mob will love the blood.” And he would hear of nothing else.

Arya barely heard anything either as they followed Renly out of the throne room. The execution was going to be on a hastily-erected platform outside the Red Keep, so the people of King’s Landing could -see. It was there that they directed their steps. The whole population of the city seemed to be below, pressing against each other in a mad scramble to see the execution. But Arya’s focus was on Joffrey, who was madly struggling against the guards who were holding him, bound hand and foot, against a block.

Renly greeted the cheers of the crowd with upraised arms. “I have here the tyrant who shot you down like dogs! Who feasted as you starved! And now I give you, and all those who suffered at his hands, justice!” He turned to Arya. “Lady Arya, tell them who you are.”

“My name is Arya Stark.”

“Louder,” somebody whispered. “Let the crowd hear you.”

“My name is Arya Stark,” Arya repeated, looking out at the crowd. “Daughter of Ned Stark, Hand to the true king, Robert Baratheon.” _Daughter to a murdered father, sister to a tortured sister, friend to a murdered household._

Ned, Sansa, their slain household. Their faces were something that she had clung to through the beatings as a memory of how things had been. They were a reminder that home existed, far from Joffrey’s leering face and the cold walls that imprisoned her. They were something to take her mind off the daily beatings. To her horror, they had become more and more faded as time went on. But now she remembered them all vividly.

She remembered Mycah, and how the Lannisters had cut him down and thrown him across a horse. She remembered how she’d had to drive Nymeria away, and how Lady had died because of Joffrey. She remembered bold Harwin leading her pony around the yard at Winterfell. She remembered Fat Tom, who would ruffle her head as he called her ‘Underfoot.’ She remembered kind Desmond, who’d brought her a beer mug filled with foam to save her from the other men’s teasing. She remembered Jory, and Hullen, and Heward and Wyl, and all the others. She remembered Septa Mordane, and how bravely she’d walked toward the Lannisters as they were murdering the household.

She remembered Sansa, and the beatings they’d received together. Arya had always hated Sansa, or perhaps how perfect Sansa always was in the eyes of Mother and Septa Mordane, and how Sansa and her companions would make fun of her. But she’d seen how Sansa suffered at Joffrey’s hands because of her, and she’d suffered for Sansa’s sake too. And her sister had been the one friendly face during the torture, a fleeting reminder of home and hope that wouldn’t fade away.

And she remembered Ned. How he’d given her Nymeria and allowed her to keep Needle – at least till Meryn Trant broke it – and how treasured his approval and his lessons were.

Joffrey and the Lannisters had torn it all it away.

The man-at-arms was handing her Ice now. She barely managed to heft it, to lift it above Joffrey’s head. The boy king was blubbering for mercy. _You never gave me and Sansa mercy_ , Arya thought angrily. _You made us scream for it, but the beatings would always start again._

Joffrey had beaten her and Sansa because they were Starks. But that was something he could never take from them. In a way, his beatings had only reminded her of that. Now, she remembered her father’s words.

_He who passes the sentence should swing the sword._

Arya lowered Ice. Joffrey stopped blubbering and looked up, surprise registering on his face. “You’re not worthy of Ice,” Arya snapped before stepping away.

She took Ice with her.

A stillness descended on the crowd, then a murmuring. Arya did not listen. She barely heard as it slowly swelling into a chant of her name. “Arya the Merciful! Arya the Merciful!” Instead, she kept her eyes on Joffrey. A quick word passed between King Renly and his advisors, and Loras Tyrell stepped forwards to lop off Joffrey’s head in one stroke. _Justice_ , Arya whispered to herself as the head rolled away, and one of Renly’s men lifted it up to display to the stunned crowd. But it did not feel as satisfying as she would have thought.

Arya glanced over at Olenna Tyrell. “I take it that the entertainment for the day is over,” the dowager said. Arya thought the dowager nodded as she turned to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would argue that Arya as an assassin girl is incompatible with her identity as a Stark. Her whole journey past King's Landing, as she starts taking justice in her own hands, is one of her Stark identity being stripped away; she is Arry and Weasel and Cat of the Canals. Her having the power to end a life though simply saying a name, after all, is through a Faceless Man, a man without a true name. But deep down, she still knows that she is a Stark, and that's why she can never truly become a Faceless Man.
> 
> For reasons that I hope have been clear in her journey so far in this story, her Stark identity is never eroded. Her stepping away from having the power to end Joffrey's life is quite symbolic; it will not the path that she will follow.


End file.
